Heroes for Ghosts
by Mirrordance
Summary: It's a time of change.Sam had always looked up to Dean as a brother,stand-in father & hunter,but Dean has to step up when the school is in financial trouble and Sam needs a different kind of hero: a good student? Dean is just a little out of his element.
1. A Fork in the Road

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **Heroes for Ghosts**

Summary:It's a time of change. While Sam had always looked up to Dean as a brother, stand-in father & hunter, Dean has to step up when the school is in financial trouble and Sam needs a different kind of hero: a good student? Dean is just a little out of his element. Set post-_After School Special_.

_**Hi guys**,_

_First off, thanks for all who read and reviewed my last fic _The Bough Breaks_. The response was as insightful and encouraging as always. I haven't posted in awhile, and this was because I've been out of the country and jumping from airport to airport which means that (1) I've had little time to sit down to work on fic-writing; and (2) going to different places keeps inspiring me with new ideas that I end up starting stories and starting others and never finishing anything._

_Nevertheless, in the last few days I have finished a multi-chapter, plot-driven fic that is now hitting the beta-stage, _Open, Shut_ which should come out very soon, and this offering, _Heroes for Ghosts_. It is one of those majorly unplanned stories that just sank its teeth into me and is now almost done. This is a work in process that is near completion... after just three days of fervent writing! I hope the quality didn't suffer, especially since there's no beta for this one. I'll explain more of how this story came about in my standard post-fic afterword. In the meantime, concrit is always welcome and without further ado:_

" " "

**Heroes for Ghosts**

" " "

**1: Fork in the Road**

_1997_

" " "

"Oh you cannot possibly be seeeeeeriouuuuus," Dean groaned as he blearily pushed himself off the bed and up to his elbows to glare at his younger brother.

"Keep it the hell down!" he heard his father yell at them from the bedroom next door. John banged at the thin walls to make his annoyance even more clear.

"Sorry Dean," Sam said sheepishly, ceasing the anxious pacing that had woken Dean and now their father.

"Sam," Dean hissed at him, "Get in your damn bed or I swear to god I am knocking you over the head."

"I tried," Sam said plaintively, "I can't sleep."

"And _I _can't sleep with you tearing a path on the floor," Dean growled, laying back down and closing his eyes.

Sam sat on the foot of Dean's bed, and Dean's eyes crossed in irritation when he felt the bed respond to Sam's restless leg-shaking. He lifted his head from the pillow and looked at his brother, who had also started biting his nails.

Dean gave out a world-weary sigh, "Okay, what?"

"Nothing," Sam said in a breath, a beat before reconsidering, "I'm just worried."

"I hadn't noticed," Dean said dryly before letting his tone soften, "About what, man? If you let me sleep I'll take care of it."

Sam smiled tentatively. "If _you_ could do anything about it, then I wouldn't be worried, would I?"

Dean frowned, because the openly honest and flattering statement pleased and embarrassed him. "Sam – What?"

"The school's in a lot of financial trouble," Sam said, "And they're considering cutting on the extracurriculars... some of the students have started a fund drive."

"Oh my god somebody's been giving you chocolatey energy bars," Dean groaned in realization, recalling that booths and tables have been set up around the high school selling baked goods and chocolate, manned by student volunteers. He knew from miserable experience that the already-naturally-active mind of Sam Winchester plus sugar usually equaled to a Sam on overdrive, with a side of headache for Dean.

"It's for a good cause," Sam shrugged, "I've been using up my lunch money and my allowance on 'em."

"Buy a decent lunch tomorrow for god's sakes," Dean snapped, "I'll buy your share, I promise. _Anything_, man, to keep you from this damned sugar high."

Sam shrugged again, "They're cutting off a lot of the less popular extracurriculars and free classes. They're even getting rid of some sports teams."

"Anyone cutting off music classes by any chance?"

"It's not funny, Dean," Sam admonished him, "They're shutting down Latin club."

"Aw, I'm sorry Sammy," Dean said, and he truly meant it; that was the only extracurricular that Sam and John could to agree on, and Sam was damned good at it.

"They should just shut down the football team instead," Sam seethed, "Those guys are jerks, and they're a cost center that hasn't won a game since 1953. It's all just... _hegemony_."

He said the last word with a lot of venom, and though it sounded familiar, Dean didn't bother with thinking about it too much. "And you wonder why you're unpopular."

"I'm not unpopular," Sam argued, "I blend in. I'm _normal_. You, on the other hand... why do you have to be cool everywhere we go?"

"I'm cool everywhere we go," Dean grinned at him lazily, "'Cos I'm cool everywhere."

Sam rolled back his eyes, "So there. I was worried. I can't sleep knowing what I know. Can you?"

"Actually yeah," Dean yawned, "Sammy, try not to wear yourself out over the things you can't do anything about."

"But there's gotta be something," Sam argued, "And it's 'Sam.'"

"Go to bed, Sammy," Dean said, "And no more chocolates for you."

" " "

Bug-eyed-toothy-thin-girl never would have registered in Dean-world if she hadn't been one of Sam's Latin club friends. She was manning the volunteer booth the lunchtime that Dean came up to the table, bidding sloppy-joe day goodbye in favor of living up to his promise to Sam from the night before.

"Marthena," he greeted her with a cocky smile and slapped on the table whatever money he had set aside for that day, "How far can all this get me?"

Her large eyes widened all the more, "Oh this is very good of you, Dean. Really. We're uh..." she glanced left and right, "We're not doing so well."

"Yeah?"

"But that's not such a surprise, is it?" Marthena replied as she grabbed a handful of chocolate bars for him. She carefully made sure that Dean got each of the available flavors, "I mean, not a lot of people wanted to join our clubs in the first place, why would anyone want to save us?"

Dean frowned as he accepted the chocolate bars. It was the older brother in him or maybe the monster-hunter, he figured, that created this deep and profound desire to go protect... _something_. He had a soft-spot for the weak and defenseless in this miserable David-and-Goliath world. Not to mention he had a soft-spot for things that Sam enjoyed, and an even softer-spot for protecting one of the few things his younger brother and his father could passionately agree on.

Dean spotted a few of his classmates emerging from the cafeteria, three guys from a grade lower than his but in advanced placement. They were a little clumsier than his senior classmates, and desperately wanted to fit in more with the older group. He flashed them a huge grin and waved them over.

"Hey Dean!" they greeted him as they stopped by the booth.

"Hey, guys," he nodded at them, "Marthena here cut me a really good deal, and only for me and my pals. Buy a bar and get one free."

Marthena opened her mouth to argue, but Dean kept her quiet with a pointed look. In one minute he sold three chocolate bars, and picked the 'one free' from the pile he just bought.

When the three underclassmen thanked her and left, Dean gave her advice that he knew from his experience while trying to live on the meager budget that his father often left for him and Sam: "Spin it a little, sweetheart. Give out pricebreaks, like a 4 for the price of 3, or buy one get another for half-off or something. You'll make up the lost money with how many more you'll sell doing it."

She had blushed at 'sweetheart,' and he was too self-aware and vain to have missed it. He just smiled at her wider, "And make sure you ask for the same deals from your supplier. Make sure they know your situation, and always get from the same ones; you'll have more leverage to ask for things."

He opened one of his chocolate bars and took a big bite off. He was hungry, and this was all he would have for the rest of the day now, "Oh. And prom season's coming up, so swap some of the choc bars for those diet-things. Low-fat, no-fat, bird-food bars, crap like that. The chicks would buy from you guys instead of the lunch lady. You're supposed to know this, 'Thena. You're like... a girl."

"I don't think about stuff like that," she said, awed, "How do you..."

"Me and Sammy are like army brats," Dean said with a shrug, enjoying his chocolate, "We keep moving, so we end up kind of... observing a lot, instead of being a part of things. You watch more than participate, and you spot some things that other people might miss."

"Thanks, Dean," she said, "I'll make sure we do all of that."

" " "

Sam walked toward his older brother at the end of the day, when he spotted Dean waiting for him by his locker. A couple of girls were with him, but Sam preferred to ignore them. Not that he was mean or that they were. It's just that everyone seemed to know that Sam was Dean's weakness, and they kind of looked at Sam functionally, as if he was Dean's pet dog: they used Sam as a reason to talk to Dean - "_Oh is he your brother? He's sooooo cute,_" or decided that Dean would like whoever the dog liked best, so they cooed and crowed all over him.

"Sam-may!" Dean greeted him, clapping him on the back, "You remember..."

_Blah, blah and blah_, Sam filled in because it was the same in every school, just as he was always told by any new friend he made, '_That's your brother with Blah_?'

"Hey," he gave them a small smile, and then turned to Dean, "You ready?"

"Was waiting on you, man," Dean said, and the brothers moved around the girls and walked down the hall. They stopped once or twice to say hello to this person or that. Sam watched his older brother with that sense of awe that still always caught him unawares sometimes.

Generally speaking, Dean behaved whenever he knew that they were staying at a particular place for a fairly long time; that meant studying and doing homework and being polite, because he didn't want to fall under the eagle-eye of any authority that could jeopardize their father with Family Services. In the nice, 'good-people' towns that Dean actually liked, he went from behaved to outright charming, and this was one of those places. It struck Sam how easy it was for Dean to fit in if he only wanted to, like it was just a matter of turning something on or off. Then again... why in the world should Dean find school life hard when 'hard' in Winchester-definition was a mother killed by a demon in a house fire, a troubled father, little money and ridding the world of evil. Of course this was a walk in the park for Dean Winchester, he's gone through hoops the rest of his life. Not to mention... a lot of what they did was an act, and what was one more con? They were practically trained to charm the pants off people if needed.

The brothers stepped out of the building, started walking toward the small house they rented that was a short walk just off the road. It was a pleasant walk on a rugged road lined by dots of trees and shrubs and small shops and houses.

"I sold fifty bucks of candy today," Sam reported to Dean with a beaming smile.

The light tone and expression must have caught Dean unawares, because he was endeared enough and disarmed enough to grin down at his younger brother and say, "You would."

"Marthena told me you helped out today," Sam said, "Thanks, Dean."

"No skin off my nose," Dean shrugged, "I mean, I'm starving as hell and you can bet you're paying all your dues by cooking dinner tonight."

"That wasn't part of the deal!" Sam argued, "Besides... you hate my cooking, dad hates my cooking, _I _hate my cooking. You said everything I make tastes like egg-white. Why bother?"

"You're right," Dean sighed, "And I'm like, really hungry."

"I'll wash the dishes," Sam said brightly, "Oh, and I'm doing this essay you have to check on."

"You're already better than me with that stuff," Dean pointed out.

"But I need to see if what I want to say is getting across," Sam said, not bothering to deny it and was quite proud of that fact, "There's this writing contest I want to join. Everyone in the clubs that are about to get axed are joining everything left and right that they could find, so that we can donate money to the cause."

"If you win money," Dean said wryly, "You should just donate to the Winchesters."

"But we're always fine," Sam said simply, "It's the other guys that no one gets to look out for."

" " "

"Dessert," Dean said, slapping three candy bars on top of the dining room table and sliding two of them toward his father and his brother.

"Should you be having sweets this late?" John asked, putting a hand over Sam's when the youngest Winchester reached over to take his.

"I'm fourteen, dad," he said as he rolled back his eyes and picked up his candy bar, "Not four."

"Well 'cos there's three of us in this house, son," John said dryly, "Not one. And when you're awake, everyone's awake."

"Well that's not my fault," Sam said as he defiantly chucked half the entire bar into his mouth and got up to start with the dishes, "And I need to stay up, I have work to do."

"He's writing an essay for a fundraiser," Dean explained to their father, "Or else it's bye-bye to the Latin club."

"And keeping the football team which hasn't won a game since 1953!" Sam explained as he picked up the plates quickly and washed them with frustration. The sugar high was beginning to take hold.

"The fundraiser's where the chocs are from too," Dean said, "Sam's practically been sniffing the damn things lately and that's why he's a little...intense."

"It's a terrible situation," Sam said with a grave shake of his head.

Dean smirked behind his back, still finding amusement in his antics even at his age. "So uh... sir, I was thinking we could interest you in a bar or two. Or three or four."

"I'd give money to keep that club running," John shrugged, "It's good that Sam is taking an active interest in Latin. It's something you should also be getting into."

"Hey I'm allowed like, one rebellion," Dean said, "This is it."

"You're not allowed any!" John said, but nevertheless handed Dean a five dollar bill.

"Another satisfied customer!" Dean cheered.

" " "

_Oh Happy day..._

Dean wanted to shoot himself and anyone who ever came up with _Sister Act 2_ as he stood in the back of his music class choir line, mouthing the words to the song as his classmates sang and played instruments and his teacher conducted. They've been to four schools this year and every music class teacher had picked this song or _Joyful, Joyful_ as a class project and it was driving him nuts.

The teacher walked from one end of the chorus line to the other, and then back again. She gave him a narrowed eagle-eye, and he groaned inside knowing that his faking had been spotted. When the bell rang, he didn't bother with a rushed exit, already expecting that she would ask him to stay over.

She leaned back against her desk and crossed her arms over her chest. Mrs. Winkler was a twenty-year veteran, and had probably seen all kinds of bullshit in her classroom. Then again, she's never met him before, has she? He flashed her a smile.

"Something tells me you're used to this," she told him wryly. He'd always appreciated her dry sense of humor and her straightforward style.

"At what?" he asked innocently.

"Being asked to stay back," she replied with a graceful wave of her hand, "For this misdemeanor or that."

"'Cos kids tend to act up when they grow up in tough domestic situations," he told her mock-gravely.

"Oh no," she said bluntly, "Not always. There's something about you, Mr. Winchester, that leads me to believe that your motherless little renegade act isn't a lost cause."

The act fell, because the 'motherless' part of her statement was something he wasn't used to dealing with so casually. Most people tended to dance around it, not knowing how to breach the topic with him in a sensitive manner. The thing is, there was never any way he could discuss his mother that would not hurt, and they might as well just hit him with the damn questions and commentary head on, like ripping out a band-aid.

Still, his defenses raised and his smile faded. "What is this, a _Stand and Deliver_ moment?"

She realized she crossed a line, but was not going to apologize. She just opened her hands to him earnestly, "I just need you to try harder in class."

"Not everyone's cut out to be a musician," he pointed out.

"But no one can be bad at everything," she said, "We've tried you on the instruments but you said you didn't have time for learning or practicing them. I put you to singing and you're not even trying. I'm this close to giving you a maracas."

Dean smirked at her, "That would be... entertaining. Got a cowbell?"

"I need you to try," she said earnestly, "And I need you to practice."

"Practice makes perfect, right?" he snorted, "But if no one's perfect, why practice?"

Her lip quirked in humor, and he sensed a weakness.

"Come on, Mrs. W.," he implored her, "Not everyone's cut out for this."

"I know but people don't pass in my class unless they give it a shot," she said primly, "I need you to try, Dean, because I don't want to have to fail you."

Dean racked his brain for any other argument. If he failed this class, his dad would have his hide not because music class was important to hunting, but by god, he sure as hell would hate to be bothered by something like this.

"I mean you like music, don't you?" Mrs. Winkler asked, "I see some of the shirts you wear to class. Unless of course you w--"

"I'm no poser, thank you very much," Dean cut her off, "Yeah, I like music. Just... just not the kind you like to teach."

She tilted her head at him thoughtfully, and picked up a guitar.

"Oh god," Dean groaned miserably.

"Indulge me," she said, taking no offense as she started strumming. He recognized the opening to The Rolling Stones' _Wild Horses_ right away.

"Ever heard of _Rockapella_?" she asked him as she kept playing, "These schools pick rock songs and do them in a choir. That's pretty cool, isn't it?"

"I don't know," he shrugged, "But anything beats _Oh Happy Day_ as long as it's different."

"Fair enough," she said, "I change the song, you start to sing?"

"No!" he exclaimed, "I mean, why would you have to change everything for one guy? It's like... a hassle. And embarrassing. No. Don't do that. I'll play ball, I promise."

"Yeah?"

"Yes!" he said emphatically, "Yes, all right? Sheesh. This is like coercion."

"I'll see you in class," she told him with a smile, "Good talk."

"For you," Dean muttered under his breath as he grabbed his things and went out of the classroom.

" " "

There was a certain logic to their morning rituals, which was just as strategic as any other family activity of the Winchester men. One of John's few unwavering father-roles was to wake up the earliest and take the first shower, and then rouse his boys. Sam would take the next shower, and Dean would go to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Once Sam is done taking a bath, Dean takes over the bathroom as Sam and his father eat. When he gets down to breakfast, he stuffs everything in his mouth in minutes, and they still have time to wash the dishes before John drops them off at school before going to work, or wherever else he needed to be. Dean took the last shower because he took the longest and would have robbed the other two men of hot water. The water turning cool was also a fair indication that he should be getting out, like a timer. He also ate last because this he was fastest at, and they could still have time to wash the dishes before leaving the house.

And so it was that Sam and John were eating breakfast and respectively going over homework and yesterday's newspaper (salvaged from the neighbors' when it's thrown out at the end of the day), when they heard Dean singing _Oh Happy Day_ in the shower.

At first, neither man thought they heard right. But at a particularly high, gargling note, Sam peered up at his perplexed father and started to laugh. The high note ended at a yelp when the water turned cold and a few minutes later, Dean stepped into the kitchen while drying his hair.

"Having a happy day?" John asked him, face carefully neutral.

Dean's face reddened, "These walls are damned thin."

"You sounded good," Sam said generously.

"Shuddup," Dean muttered, shoving a piece of pancake in his mouth, "My music teacher's givin' me a hard time."

"Well just play along," John said gruffly, "I'd be pissed as hell if you get in trouble over shit like that."

"I know, I know," Dean said, "I was fricking practicing, wasn't I?"

"Watch the tone."

"I'm sorry sir--"

"I meant in the shower," John said, and his face was just as nonchalant but his eyes were simmering with humor, like it seldom was. It made Dean blush and his heart swell, but he hid the pleasure in his face by ducking his head and punching the laughing Sam on the arm.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up buddy."

" " "

Dean found out that his younger brother won $500.00 in that contest along with everyone else in school, when the win was announced over the PA system during homeroom. It was a corporate-sponsored junior essay-writing contest about the environment. Dean was pleased but unsurprised; he had read the thing and was bowled over. He also found out along with everybody that Sam had donated most of it for the preservation of the endangered clubs.

He caught up to his younger brother during lunchtime, spotting him manning a candy bar booth and eating chocolate for lunch.

"Hey Sammy!" he called out, and the kid was beaming at him with his chest out, looking profoundly pleased with himself, "You've been holding out on me. How long have you known?"

"Since yesterday," Sam grinned at him wickedly, "I guess I just wanted to see if you still listened at homeroom."

Dean snagged the candy bar Sam was eating and kept it from himself, "Go get real food, doofus. I can watch the booth 'til you get back and I won't eat 'em all."

"Hey, uh..." Sam fished in his pocket and handed Dean a wrinkled white envelope. Dean knew it was the rest of the prize money right away, and refused to touch the thing. "You were right about keeping some of the money for us. It's been awhile so I think Dad will gear up for a hunt soon, and this is, you know, for when he leaves us."

"Aw, Sam," Dean said, "You should keep that stuff. Save it for a rainy day, or buy something nice and reckless for yourself. Dad always gives us enough."

"He always gives us enough 'cos you always end up starving," Sam pointed out, "We barely scrape by with whatever he leaves behind and you almost always have to go do something dangerous just so we could eat."

"Playing poker, pool and darts is hardly--"

"People hate losing, Dean," Sam sighed, "And when you're winning you have a big mouth so yeah, it's dangerous. Keep the money, it'll go back to my stomach anyway. And I did keep some for me."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," Sam said emphatically, "Just... hang on to it or something. It's kind of like you hustling for money and spending it for us, right? Writing that essay is like me, hustling. I mean did you read that thing? I wrote down a lot of bullshit."

Dean grinned at his younger brother affectionately and took the envelope with a lot of reverence, "Go grab your lunch, potty-mouth."

" " "

Sam bought the cheapest sandwich he could find and then ran right back to the booth, where Dean was just waving off three girls who apparently just bought from him.

"You're kinda good at this," Sam told him.

"High school is so predictable," Dean told him with a wistful expression that made him look ten years older, "The things that people want, what they need to hear... it's like low-hanging fruit."

"You talk like you're not one of us," Sam joked, nervously. He sat beside Dean and started with his sandwich.

"We're not like any of them," Dean said, plainly.

"Don't you wanna be?" Sam asked as he chewed, "I mean... from that last school, up in Truman. You had this really cool girlfriend, you had friends. Don't you want all of that?"

"They weren't my friends," Dean said, "Not really. And Amanda was just a sweet little fling. One of my cutest ones, but, still."

"Hm," Sam sounded unconvinced.

"What is this, _Oprah_?"

"I was just wondering," Sam said, "No biggie."

They sold more chocolate bars in the lunchtime they spent sitting together than Sam alone in one day, all of them from women. Sam on his own appealed to girls because he looked earnest and needy, like _Oliver_. Dean all alone appealed to women because everyone wanted to be the one to tame a rebel. The two of them together was a coup. When Dean had mentioned '_low hanging fruit_,' he knew exactly what he was talking about.

"For services rendered," Sam told his brother, handing him a chocolate bar for free at the end of the lunch period.

"I sound like a man-whore," Dean snickered, even as he accepted, "I'll see ya after class."

" " "

Their father was already home from work by the time they got there, and the small dining table was taken over by research. He looked up as they walked in, his eyes set and focused. And just with one look, the brothers knew their father had left the building and the hunter had taken his place.

The Winchesters were not like any other family, but life was not always about the hunt. Their extended stay here, for instance, was so that Dean could graduate from high school after all the shuttling around that they've been doing this year. Normalcy came and went, just as that morning's levity had come and gone. Sam sighed heavily at the unwelcome change. He looked up at his brother, though, and found a steely, hungry glint in Dean's eye. Dean dropped his school bag right where he stood and sat across from their dad. Sam clutched at his bag tighter, and then took his time taking it to a chair in the next room.

"Sam," he heard his father urge him to go faster, and he felt inexplicably but profoundly irritated.

Something had changed for them since their last school, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, something that emerged just now that they were getting into hunting mode again.

Dean was hungrier than ever for the hunt, and Sam remembered him saying _We're not like any of them_. His friend Marthena had told him of his older brother's oustider's view of high school, and Dean himself had told Sam that people in school were like low-hanging fruit. His externality was unnerving, as if everything in the normal world was an act or a game, and the only reality was what he knew: darkness, and hunting. It's as if Dean's already said goodbye to this life; so much that Sam had even noticed that for the first time, his brother wasn't even touching the women in this school.

"I'm coming," he mumbled.

Did he change too? Why was it that after their short stint at Truman High, suddenly his father's bark was far less fearsome than staying in this dreadful _family business_ forever and not _living the life he wanted to live_?

"Sammy, come on," Dean urged, "Shake a leg, will 'ya?"

"I'm coming," he snapped, before reigning in his temper.

"Ho-kay," Dean said, "I guess it's that time of the month again. And I was just gonna tell dad the good news."

"I won an essay contest and got some money and donated everything to Latin Club," Sam said quickly, throwing his brother a warning look when Dean opened his mouth to correct Sam about the money-thing.

"Good," John said gruffly, shifting in his seat, as if the scholarly feats of his sons made him uneasy when he was entirely focused on something else.

Dean raised a brow at Sam in inquiry, but let it slip. Sam didn't want his father to know about the money he had set aside for his family. Whenever Dean did it, he never let John know that they often came up short on cash or that a lot of the time he had to hustle on his own because he felt their father had enough on his plate to worry about things like that. It would have embarrassed the hell out of John, not being able to provide for his family. But Sam's reason was different; he kept it from John because he felt that providing for himself was the first kind of independence he'd ever felt in his life. Like it gave him a license to fight back a little. And besides, his father was damned well supposed to know what he was giving wasn't enough without having to be told.

He sat with his father and Dean, and listened with half an ear.

" " "

"What's going on with you?" Dean asked him quietly that night, when the had all gone off to their beds.

"I'm just stressed out."

"You think too much about everything," Dean yawned, "You should relax a little, Sammy."

"Yeah, how?" Sam snapped, "We're having all these problems in school, I have some tests coming up, we're going on a hunt in two days, and another one three days after that, and--"

"Don't you be biting my head off!" Dean protested.

Sam bit back the rest of his tirade and closed his eyes, took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I guess it's just... life's hard enough without the hunting."

"You talk like we can just do away with it," Dean snorted, "It's more like hunting's hard enough without the rest of life getting in the way."

Lying in bed, Sam realized that he and his older brother were emerging out to be two very different people. He'd do away with the hunt if he could, and Dean would do away with the normal if possible. It was like day and night, the way they were beginning to look at things. It felt like a fork in the road, and the realization was a little bit like a cleave in his heart.

To be continued...


	2. A Choice Between

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **Heroes for Ghosts**

Summary:It's a time of change. While Sam had always looked up to Dean as a brother, stand-in father & hunter, Dean has to step up when the school is in financial trouble and Sam needs a different kind of hero: a good student? Dean is just a little out of his element. Set post-_After School Special_.

**Hi guys**,

First off, thanks to all who read and alerted my new story, and much love to the reviewers of the first chapter of _Heroes for Ghosts:_ staceycj, Justme (haha, yes I did consider the triangle too, haha!), moira4eku, Mandy, masondixon and JackFan2. Your words are so inspiring that I thought, what the heck, well-reviewed or not, the next chapter for this story is coming up like, right now haha. Thank you so much.

As always, c&c's are welcome and without further ado:

" " "

**Heroes for Ghosts**

" " "

**2: A Choice Between**

_1997_

" " "

One moment, there was algebra on the board and the next, there was just the pain.

It started with flashes of light in the corners of his vision, and suddenly it was like he couldn't see with one eye. His extremities started to go cold and numb, and his stomach rolled with nausea. He had a tendency to getting migraines, but he's never felt this bad and this suddenly before. He let out a quiet whimper that was drowned out by the bell that signaled the end of the day.

He stayed in his seat as his classmates left the room, and he mumbled responses to the friends who said goodbye to him. While they were still around he pretended to be busy putting his things together, but the moment they left, the flashes turned to insistent throbbing behind his eyes. He kept his head ducked low and his grip on his pencil tight as he waited for the pain to go away.

"Sam?" he felt Mr. Hillshire approach him and fall to a knee to be on the level with his face, "Hey, you okay?"

Sam took a few breaths before replying, just to make sure he wouldn't lose his lunch all over the nice teacher's shirt, "Fine," he mumbled, "Just need a moment."

"Are you sick?" Mr. Hillshire asked urgently, "Does anything hurt?"

"My head," Sam admitted breathlessly. He bit out a cry when the pain worsened with a quick flash, and dimly, he heard his pencil snap in his hand with the force of his hold.

"Hey, hey..." Mr. Hillshire put a hand on his shoulder, "I'm gonna get you some help, all right?" Sam could feel the anxious teacher gather a breath as if to holler for somebody.

"No," Sam said through grit teeth, "I just need m'brother, Dean. He should be by my locker just outside the hall. He'll know what to do."

"You've had this before?" Mr. Hillshire asked, hesitating.

"Yes damnitt," Sam snapped, before biting back more curses, "Sorry. Please just get him, sir. He'll be looking for me anyway."

" " "

He knew Mr. Hillshire because he knew all of his younger brother's teachers. The man was jogging toward him and had this look on his face that had Dean forgetting whoever he was talking to and barreling past the teacher and into the room where he knew Sam's last class would be. He shoved desks aside and squatted before his miserable kid brother, putting both hands on his shoulders.

"The noise," Sam whispered.

"Sorry, sorry," Dean told him quietly and with a small, reassuring smile, "I got scared so sue me, huh?"

Sam lifted his head a little to look at Dean. He smiled a little too, before turning a little bit green. His body jerked as if he was going to throw up, but he shut his mouth, closed his eyes and took deep breaths.

"Light hurts him so you mind hitting them for me?" Dean asked the teacher who came up behind him.

"Should I get the nurse?" Mr. Hillshire asked as he did what he was told.

"We're just gonna let him get his sea legs back a little," Dean said quietly, "Light and noise are bad, and he just has to be still for a little while." To Sam, he said, "You'll be fine, Sammy. I gotcha."

For a long quiet moment, he kept a hand rubbing at Sam's back, as the younger Winchester just closed his eyes and steadied his breathing.

"He gets migraines," Dean explained to the teacher, "Not frequently but fairly bad. We take him to the doc's after every one, but they kept saying it was faulty wiring that happens every now and then. We'll go again after this, just in case it's something more serious."

"I don't wanna," Sam mumbled.

"Well too bad," Dean admonished him, "You're due another check-up anyway, and I'm not letting this shit go 'cos this might be the one that can tell us what's wrong. It could be bad, you know that." He bit his lip in thought, "I'm gonna call up dad, see if he can pick us up and maybe we can go right now."

"Aw, Dean--"

"You're strong enough to argue then you're strong enough to go," Dean said with finality, "Besides, I'd have to call him anyway 'cos no way are you walking home like this. Come on. I'm gonna get you up to the nurse's office, and you can lie down while we wait for him."

"Later," Sam said sternly, "When the halls are a little emptier."

"Sam, you'll be more comfortable there," Dean argued.

"I don't want anyone to see," Sam insisted, "I don't want people to think I'm a freak."

Dean sighed, and looked up to Mr. Hillshire woefully, "He's a bossy little shit when he's sick."

The teacher was stunned enough to let the cursing go from both brothers, for now.

"I'll go ahead to the nurse's office to let her know what's going on," he said.

" " "

Dean stole glances at his stock-still younger brother sitting miserably on his desk as he put Sam's things together. He picked up two curious pieces of a pencil snapped in two and put it in Sam's pencil case, gathered his books and stuffed them in his bag. Dean carefully lifted Sam's elbow and pulled at the paper and notebook he was leaning over and put those away too.

"You still with me?" he asked as he worked.

"Yeah," came the shaky, tired voice.

"I guess this one's pretty bad, huh?" Dean asked.

"...Yeah," Sam replied.

"We gotta figure out what to do about this when I graduate and I won't be around as much anymore," Dean said as he checked if the hallways outside were clear. He walked back to Sam and hefted his younger brother's bag over his left shoulder, and then his own.

"Yeah," Sam grimaced.

"Maybe I can just fail and stay back another year," Dean joked, "But then that would be like spoiling you."

"I am spoiled," Sam mumbled, making Dean laugh.

"You are _not_ spoiled," Dean said vehemently, because that would mean he was like Sam's bitch, "You're just a brat."

"Sorry I snapped at you last night," Sam said.

"That's okay," Dean replied as he stood over Sam, and thought about the best way to get him up.

"I don't know what I was thinking," Sam went on, "It's just everything's been getting on my nerves lately."

"It's 'cos you're a fricking teenager," Dean explained, "This is the part where we make our parents regret having us."

"Dad liked you though," Sam pointed out, "Even when you were my age."

"I took it all out on my teachers," Dean snickered, "You, on the other hand, Mr. Super-student, have no one to vent all your steam at but me."

"And dad," Sam added.

"I'd keep it to me," Dean advised, "The old man has enough on his plate."

The statement inexplicably annoyed Sam, "You always have to make up for him?"

"I'm gonna shut up," Dean told him blandly, though Sam knew he was also getting a bit snipey, "And let you think about everything you've been saying to me lately, and you tell me if I deserve any of this crap."

"Sorry, sorry," Sam said quickly in a helpless sigh, "I don't know why I'm just all scrambled."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, "I'm gonna get you up, okay? And we're taking you to the nurse's office."

"Okay," Sam took a calming breath. Dean put his hands on Sam's arms and stood him up as carefully as he could.

"Don't try to move your head," Dean said calmly, "Keep it low if you've found a good spot. I'll take us where we need to go and I promise you won't bump into anything."

Sam shook as Dean planted him on his feet, steadied him and then readjusted his grip. He came up behind Sam and placed his right hand on Sam's right arm and his left hand on Sam's left arm. He ushered Sam forward slowly, and the two started to walk around chairs and to the door.

"I really am sorry," Sam gasped.

"Easy, easy," Dean consoled him, "Talk when you're settled."

They walked down the hall and was met by Mr. Hillshire and the nurse. Dean and Sam stopped long enough for Dean to pass the school bags to Mr. Hillshire, and they continued on to the clinic until Dean helped Sam stretch out on a crisp white cot.

"You good?" Dean asked Sam.

"Yup," replied the younger Winchester, even as his features were pinched in pain and his eyes were closed.

"Stay put, all right?" Dean said as he turned to the nurse, "Ms. Miles."

"Did he take anything yet for this?" she asked as she gave Sam a basic look-over.

"No," Dean replied, "The standard OTC stuff doesn't usually work when this hits him anyway. The damn things just put him sleep so he doesn't have to ride the pain. But if he can handle it, I want to keep him awake so we can take him to the doc's."

She nodded in approval, "Debilitating headaches are no walk in the park, you are correct. This happened before, Mr. Hillshire said."

"Once in awhile," Dean said as he fished out his cell phone, "I'm calling up my dad."

" " "

John came in record time and he came to pick up the boys winded, looking both worried and annoyed at the same time. His kids getting ill always made him cranky, and the fact that they had a hunt in two days that was on a very real threat of getting sidelined because someone was sick didn't help matters at all.

Dean stayed in the backseat of the speeding Impala with Sam under an arm on the way to the ER. His younger brother had his face buried on the side of Dean's chest, and one of his hands were fisted on Dean's jacket.

John glanced at them through the rearview mirror and met Dean's eyes.

"He's okay," Dean reassured him quietly, "But I just wish these damn things would stop."

The school nurse had called ahead at the ER, and distressed kids usually got fairly quick attention. When they got there, Sam was immediately taken from Dean's arms and to a stretcher, off for some tests. Since Sam started getting his headaches, this was a familiar occurrence but no less harrowing for the Winchesters.

The first time it happened was when Sam started hitting puberty at thirteen, and then has been plaguing him sporadically since. Every time Dean tried to be calm, but every time cancer and tumors and aneurysms always came to mind. Sam's tests always came back negative to his relief but at the same time, it scared him that the randomness of the pain could hit his kid brother at anytime. He grabbed coffees for him and his father, and then settled in for their usual wait.

"It's probably nothing," John said into the silence.

"Yeah," Dean winced.

"He'll be fine," John said, "Just like always. You know how migraines go, they just sneak up on you sometimes."

"Yeah..."

"You all right?"

"I just hate it when he's so miserable," Dean admitted. He smiled a little in recollection, "You know Sammy, he's always so committed. When he's miserable he's like, _all-out_ miserable."

"I'm gonna get some research out of the car," John said, "For while we wait."

"Can't you pass the job on to someone else?" Dean asked uneasily, "I mean, what with Sam and all."

"There's not enough hunters out there to do everything that needs doing, Dean," John told him patiently, "I'm gonna get the research out of the car."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, and then just bit it back. His father had to worry about Sam and the rest of the world on top of it all, and he didn't need Dean's drama too. They'll figure out the right thing to do once they find out more.

"Okay," he said.

" " "

All the tests came back negative, and the doctor gave them the standard spiel that all the others had given: it was a good habit to always bring Sam to the ER whenever the pain became unmanageable, because the symptoms could always point to something more serious and ominous than a random migraine. But for now, painkillers and bedrest should put Sam back on his feet in no time.

When they finally got out of the hospital, it was three in the morning and Sam was tanked up on pain pills and blissfully cradled in his father's arms. Dean drove them home this time, and was careful to avoid potholes and all manner of road disturbance to keep Sam from being rattled.

After settling Sam in bed, Dean joined his father in the dining room.

"You think you can stay back from school and look after your brother?" John asked.

"There was no question," Dean said simply, "Around afternoon I'll leave him for like, an hour or something though, just so I can get all the work he missed from school. You know he'll look for the damn things."

"And all the work you missed," John pointed out, "I'll call 'em to let them know."

"Hey dad," Dean said, "About that hunt tomorrow night..."

"Sam's sitting it out," John decided, "And depending on how he's doing, we can probably leave him on his own for a couple of hours."

"Dad," Dean protested, "Why don't you just--"

"We've been over this," John snapped, "I can't give it to someone else. You think I'm not worried about your brother?"

"It's not that--"

"There aren't enough of us to do what needs to be done!" John said, exasperated now, "We have to do it. Don't mistake this for a choice between a hunt and my sons, Dean, give me that much. Sam's going to be fine without us and in the meantime, the job needs doing or else people could die. I'm not choosing one over the other, Sam won't need us and the job needs doing."

"'Cos you'd never choose the hunt over us, right, dad?" Dean asked. John stared at him for a long, quiet moment, wondering if it was a genuine question or if there was a trace of mild accusation there.

"Never," John said, "You know that."

"Okay," Dean said quietly, "If he's doing fine, then we'll go."

"I wasn't asking your permission," John said with narrowed eyes, "I was giving you an order."

"I know," Dean said, "But it's okay either way. Sir."

" " "

Sam had woken up feeling refreshed, had even woken up in time to go to school with the delusion that Dean or his dad would put up with it. He huffed and puffed at them, but eventually settled on the couch to watch TV.

Dean said that his brother tended to be very committed about things, and so when he sat on a couch to watch TV, he _really_ sat on a couch to watch TV. He ate in front of the thing, fell asleep in front of it, and woke and kept watching.

"I feel like I haven't seen anything in so long," Sam explained sheepishly, when Dean started looking at him in wide-eyed amazement.

"I told you reading all the time is bad," Dean joked, looking at his watch. "Hey, I'm gonna go hop by the school to grab all your homework and all of mine. You're gonna be okay here for a little bit?"

"I'm great," Sam said distractedly, eyes widening as they turned back to the TV, "Oh wow, _The Simpsons_."

Dean just snickered at him; his brother was fine, the hunt was going to push through, and everything was going right again.

"Buy more candy," Sam called out as Dean headed for the door.

" " "

Dean was ordered to handle the salt lines and general turf protection for the house as John settled Sam into bed later that night. Sam was displeased to say the least, hating to be left behind and left to wait, not knowing if he was going to be the lone Winchester left by morning. Unfortunately, this translated to sniping anger, which made his father impatient because John tended to be terse during a hunt when he simply wanted to focus on the job.

Dean stepped into the bedroom after securing the house to find his brother sitting up in bed and squirming in his father's grasp.

"Dean!" Sam and John exclaimed in equal relief. "Get me my clothes!" Sam said, at the same time that John commanded, "Grab his other arm!"

Dean looked from one face to the other.

The silence held as Dean walked toward them. He knew he had to approach the situation cautiously, because picking a side usually meant suicide for him for the next few days when the un-chosen one's anger turns its focus away from the original villain and on Dean's 'betrayal' instead.

"Sammy," Dean said, "We can't make you stay if you don't cooperate short of tying you to that bed."

"You wouldn't!" Sam exclaimed, eyes wide.

"Don't tempt me," John muttered. He stopped when Dean threw him a dirty look.

"No," Dean said, "Nor would we want to. But the thing is... you understand why we have to go and do this, right?"

"I'm not saying not to go!" Sam argued, "I'm just saying I'm going with!"

"You were just at the hospital 'til early this morning," Dean implored him, "We can't work properly if we're worried about you. And we _have _to work, so where does that leave us?"

"I'm not staying here," Sam said.

"Well you're not going!" John roared.

"Sam," Dean said sternly, "We're going and we're not taking you with us. You're a smart kid and tell me you understand why."

Sam glared at him, but nodded.

"Now we can't work properly if we have to think about you going after us or causing chaos here," Dean went on, "The more distracted we are, the riskier the job. So what I need from you right now is to promise you'll stay put, get better and wait."

"Promise you'll come back," Sam said, and he wondered if other kids his age had to consider this everytime they were left alone, if it was going to be forever. He looked at his father too, not-quite willing to part on a sour note with him.

"Of course we're coming back!" Dean said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Otherwise why the hell would I ask you to wait?"

"Okay," Sam said. He looked at his father with a wordless apology, "Be careful, dad."

"Okay," John said too, and ruffled Sam's hair as he stood up. "Come on, Dean."

" " "

"What's going on with Sam lately?" John asked, as he pulled out of the drive and the Impala hit the streets of the night. The drive was going to be a short one to the next town over, a job to handle an angry spirit drowning men on a lake.

"Well he's a teenager," Dean said, "And he's just stressed about a lot of things, I guess. Moving all the time, homework, hormones, _everything_."

"You think it's about a girl?" John asked.

Dean just snorted, "Oh I'm telling you right now, dad. That kid won't have a problem with the ladies. Once he starts to... you know, actually _see_ them. Sam's kind of in that asexual phase right now, they're all the same to him, he doesn't really give a crap."

"You were giving me white hairs at that age," John said, "I thought I was gonna be a grand-"

"Okay this ends now," Dean said quickly, "Geez, dad! You have a dirty mind!"

They got to their destination in good time, parked the Impala just off a dirt road along the borders of the park. They had a decent guess where the body they had to salt and burn was buried, and marched on over there by the light of the moon, seeping between the gaps of the leaves over their heads.

It was a chilly this time of the year especially in the woods, but Dean felt hot and he sweat with anticipation and hyper-awareness. Hunts were seldom straightforward, and he never allowed himself to get complacent at any point on the job. He followed his father's lead, covered his back as they made their way to the lake.

From the spaces between the trees, he could see the moon and the stars reflecting on the gently stirring water nearby, making the lake look like a black cloak strewn all over with glittering diamonds.

Father and son broke into the clearing that surrounded the lake. It was tree-lined almost right to its very edge, leaving just about two feet of dry soil between the water and the trees. It was too close to the water for Dean's liking, but they didn't have much of a choice. He dropped his duffel on the ground, drew out a shovel and tossed it to his father.

"This should be the spot," John said. He caught the shovel and stabbed its sharp end to the soil in a smooth motion. Similarly smoothly, their angry spirit appeared behind Dean in a breath of chilled air on the side of his face. John ditched the shovel and sent a blast of rock salt from his shotgun into the ghost, who dispersed with an angry cry.

She reappeared again, right at the periphery of John's vision. He shot her clean through as Dean went on to work, doing a salt line around them and the grave. Dean went around John and the gravesite with their handy sack of salt. He hopped into the circle just as he felt a freezing-cold hand swipe at his arm. The circle was damned small since the bank was so narrow, but it served their purpose fairly enough. Both men started to dig as the spirit began to encircle them slowly.

"Man, she is pissed," Dean said as he worked.

John just grunted in agreement as they continued. As they unearthed more and more of the restless ghost's body, she vanished. However, the wind picked up and chilled the air in her place. Dean shivered, the cold drying up his sweat. He stopped working long enough to look up in alarm.

"Dad..." he said, "The water's rising."

It was, and it was lapping at their salt line.

"We're almost there," John said, "Keep digging, keep digging."

He did, but almost by instinct, he knew the very moment when that last granule of salt that was protecting them had washed away. He looked up and grabbed his gun, letting off a round that got the spirit to disperse just as she made a grab for his father's foot.

John growled when the leg she pulled at splashed in the freezing water, and he fell forward when he lost his balance.

"Dad," Dean reached out to pull him up, but their fingers didn't even brush when she caught him in her grip instead, grabbing Dean by an arm and twisting him around before sending him flying from the narrow bank right to the lake.

"Dean!" he heard his father exclaim.

Dean kept his hand on his shotgun and scrambled to his feet on the shallow water that reached up to his waist. He let off a shot when he saw the spirit closing in behind his dad. He missed, but she whipped toward him and she just _flew_ angrily in his direction.

"Finish it!" he yelled to his father, as he let off another blast that dispersed the spirit yet again.

He started to cautiously wade toward the bank, back toward his father, his shotgun in his shaking hand. The water was damned cold and he couldn't think of anything else but getting out of there. He was soaked through and through, the wind chill-drying him from waist-up and the water numbing him from the waist-down. The cold stole his breath, stole his thoughts, assaulted him with a barrage of senses. His skin felt as if it would implode, the cold like pure pressure trying to get into his pores. The water had shoved up his nose when he first fell and it felt like a nasty brain-freeze. His body felt heavy, heavy like he wanted to shed it.

He kept going on unsteady legs, collapsed in a heap on the bank as his father threw in the flame to ignite the gas and burn the spirit the hell away from all of them.

" " "

"'s fucking cold," Dean said through grit teeth as his father turned him on his back.

"If you can bitch then you can live," John smiled down at him, "Good work out there."

"Am I d-d-dying?" Dean asked in mock-alarm, though the stuttering and teeth-chattering was unfortunately genuine.

"Very funny, Dean," John said, even as he looked very clearly like he didn't think so at all. He stripped Dean of his jackets and his shirts. His son was stiff and trembling with the cold, and simply let him.

"I'd ask you to lose the pants," John said, "But it's not an argument I'd win."

"Damn straight," Dean shivered.

"You know what, lose the pants," John said anyway, in that clipped tone that made it an order and assuring that any argument would just fall on deaf ears.

Dean sighed but did as he was told, stripped down to his boxers. He wrapped his arms protectively around his knees. John shed his own outer-most shirt and coat, and cloaked Dean in them.

"I'm gonna get our things together," John said, "Stay still and get warm."

"G-g-gotcha," Dean stuttered.

John gathered their equipment as Dean sat huddled in his father's clothes. He liked how they smelled, masculine and homely all at once. His shivering turned more violent the warmer he got, and then petered off to sporadic, roiling trembles by the time his father was ready to go.

"Can you stand?" John asked.

"Of course I can stand," Dean snapped, though he did accept his father's hand up and let him carry all their things as they made the short trek back to the car. He clutched his father's clothes protectively around him as they walked, but his unprotected legs felt cold again. His feet also sloshed around miserably in his wet boots. He sniffed at the water that had forcibly shoved its way up his nose when he had first been thrown to the water, and he sneezed miserably, thrice in quick succession.

"You're staying home tomorrow, you know that, right?" John asked him.

"Oh I know it, dad," Dean mumbled, "Try and get me up from bed, I dare you."

" " "

The front door was already open before the Impala came to a complete stop, and Sam was standing there looking like a forbidding shadow in his pajamas and crossed arms. Dean was exhausted and half-asleep, but he had sense enough to be endeared by their little Napoleon. He glanced at his father who had set the car to park. John didn't know that Dean was already awake and aware, and was grimacing at the sight of Sam as if he feared to go inside with Dean in the shape that he was in. Dean imagined that was how he looked when he took the Impala out on a practice spin and had given her a scratch with his father waiting for him in the house.

John turned to Dean and the expression was immediately gone. Dean wondered how often John had to do that just to keep them going, how much uncertainty and fear he's had to hide from them. He mercifully gave his father an oblivious yawn.

"Are we here?"

"Yeah."

"Great!" Dean said, popping open his door and hopping out with an enthusiastic jump. He needed to look undamaged for Sam not to be pissed, because Sam getting pissed was going to get their father pissed, which meant that he had to be a referee when he was already so damn tired.

"How was it?" Sam asked neutrally, and his eyes were boring into Dean in that knowing way, trying to check if he was hurt or if he was lying. The fact that he was in his wet boots and boxers beneath his father's flannel shirt and jacket was a dead giveaway for some sort of mishap, but consciousness, no blood and no broken bones was a great start.

"I got thrown into water," Dean said, "It was a little cold but it was shallow, and Dad warmed me up fast. I'm not even shivering anymore."

"Your nose is red," Sam observed.

"Got some water up in it," Dean said, "No biggie."

Sam turned the Inquisition on his father, "He never lost consciousness? Did he aspirate any of the water? They can be carrying all sorts of germs and bacteria even if it looks clean."

"I was awake the whole time," Dean assured him, "And I was barely in there, I even got to pull myself out. I'm fine. We just ditched the wet clothes so I wouldn't catch a cold."

"He's fine?" Sam asked his father in a slightly more timid tone. For all that he always took Dean's word to make the world make sense, whenever the topic turned to Dean's health, Sam almost never believed him.

"He's all right," John said, "But it was damn cold and he might catch something, plus it's late so he's staying home from school tomorrow."

Sam nodded in approval, "Good."

"I'm gonna take a hot shower," Dean sighed in relief at crisis averted, "And then I'm going to bed. Don't wait up, Sam, 'cos you're going to school tomorrow while I get to hog the TV."

**To be continued...**

And I guess we all know a little sick!Dean should be coming up in the next chapter, and will be matched up by some pretty big realizations for Sam. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed this chapter and hope to catch you for the next one. 'Til the next post!


	3. Revolution

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **Heroes for Ghosts**

Summary:It's a time of change. While Sam had always looked up to Dean as a brother, stand-in father & hunter, Dean has to step up when the school is in financial trouble and Sam needs a different kind of hero: a good student? Dean is just a little out of his element. Set post-_After School Special_.

**Hi guys**,

Thanks to all who read, alerted and favorited _Heroes for Ghosts_. Most importantly, I want to send lots of thanks and love to my reviewers. I have more extensive responses and comments to your insightful perspectives, but I figured you might be happier with a new installment, haha... you very honestly keep me going especially since this fic isn't very widely reviewed, so your words of encouragement are fuel.

I am almost done writing this fic and I'm kind of getting very unhappy! When I started writing it, I thought I would just have fun but something turned and now it's totally different. You'll know what I'm talking about at Chapter 5, haha, but in the meantime, here's Chapter 3:

" " "

**Heroes for Ghosts**

" " "

**3: Revolution**

_1997_

" " "

Dean still woke up in time to make them breakfast, and warned Sam not to walk home alone because he would be picking him up.

"You're supposed to be resting," Sam argued.

"I'll be rested by then," Dean said, "And anyway I want to drop by, pick up my homework."

"Since when?!"

"Since now, all right?" Dean replied wearily, "We'll walk home together, just wait for me."

He left them at the dining table to trudge up back to bed even before they were done eating. He crashed, exhausted, and felt that he had just closed his eyes when he opened them up again to find Sam peering at his face.

He blanched and backed away, startled. "Jesus, Sam! Warn a body will you? And why haven't you left for school?" He felt dizzy and winded from having woken so suddenly, and he huffed as he leaned heavily against his headboard and waited for the world to settle down.

Sam's features were pinched, a cross between worry and annoyance that made him look like their dad. "I'm already back from school," he said carefully.

"What? You're pulling my leg," Dean snapped as he reached for the clock on his nightstand. The movement made him dizzier, and since leaning forward brought him tantalizingly closer to falling facedown on his pillow, he went for that instead of straightening back up.

"Oh man," he gulped at the nausea wrecking havoc with his stomach, "I'm sorry, Sammy. Oh man... I didn't want you to walk back alone. What if you got side-swiped by a car, or got piked up by one of those pedophiles in the unmarked white vans, or--"

"I'm fine," Sam cut him off, "I waited and then I got annoyed and then I got worried so I just ran home."

Dean lifted his head from the bed and grinned at Sam sickly, "You got annoyed before you got worried?"

Sam shrugged, "What do you want from me?"

"I'm sorry," Dean said, voice muffled by the pillow when he shoved his face back down. The world was spinning from beneath his closed lids and he thought that if he laid his heavy head down somewhere it would stop. It didn't, so he pressed his face deeper against the cloth, lower. Maybe if he slept on the floor he'd stop feeling like he was falling and falling... after all, how much lower can you go than that?

He jerked and stiffened at Sam's cold hand on his neck, but after a second he decided it felt nice so he let the brat keep his fingers where they were.

"You're kinda warm, Dean," Sam said, sounding displeased.

"Nah," Dean said, turning on his back when Sam pulled away, "I've just been lying here all day, 's why my skin feels hot. And you're cold 'cos you came from outside."

"I think you're sick," Sam said, "I knew you didn't come out of the hunt last night completely all right."

"I'm fine," Dean growled, pushing up to his elbows, "Dad said so too."

"Dad might just be seeing what he wants to see," Sam growled, "'Cos he needs you for that next hunt we have coming up."

Dean frowned at the slander in disapproval. "Where'd that come from?"

Sam bit his lip and just shook his head.

"Man, I wanna take a shower," Dean said, cutting into the silence, "That should get me back to life."

Sam stared at him, still displeased.

"I'm well-rested, Sammy-o," Dean insisted as he pushed up to his feet, "Lemme just freshen up, and see what we can get ready for dinner before dad gets back."

" " "

The shower did make him look much better, Sam conceded, as he watched his brother work the kitchen. While hardly a world-class cook, Dean was far better than him or their dad. Sam figured it was probably because he liked eating and could simulate how things were supposed to taste as he thought of them. That, and Dean had always been a little knife-happy, so everything was perfectly and quickly cut, just flying off of the chopping board. He had also mastered food extension, Sam noted; Dean would cook dishes with a lot of sauce and a lot of flavor so that the minimum volume of food could go along with the cheaper bread, rice or pasta to make a budget meal more filling.

"Smells nice, Dean," he said on a whim when he realized that he hasn't said anything about Dean's cooking efforts for a long time.

His brother turned to look at him suspiciously. "What?"

"I said--"

"I heard what you said," Dean cut him off, "Why?"

"Can't I just say stuff like that?" Sam asked.

"You never say things that don't mean anything else," Dean pointed out as he went back to work, "You're girly like that – confusing."

"Can't you just take a compliment?" Sam rolled back his eyes.

Dean frowned, still uneasy. "Okay... thanks?"

Sam smirked at him, went back to the schoolwork he was doing on top of the dining table, "There's another essay contest coming up, so I need you to proof it for me when I finally finish it."

"Okay," Dean said, "What's it on this time?"

"It's about the youth of today," Sam said.

"What?" Dean joked, "The corporate oldies want us to explain why our generation has gone to shit?"

"I'm still trying to come up with an angle," Sam shared, "I'm not sure if I should do like a compare-contrast piece. That would be common, and I really wanna win."

"Still raising money for the Latin club?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam grimaced, "We are a _looong_ way off."

"Well you know what they say," Dean snickered, "Rome wasn't built in a day."

"A Latin club joke," Sam laughed, "Who'd have thought."

" " "

Sam looked at him suspiciously, and by the way his father was just as warily eying him when he came down for breakfast dressed to go to school the next morning, the two _ladies _have obviously been _chit-chatting_ about his all-day nap.

"I'm fine," he growled at them as he munched on his food, though admittedly not quite at the usual speed. He still felt like his limbs were heavy, but the headache was workable and so was most of the lethargy.

"You sure you don't need another day off?" John asked.

"Positive," Dean said through a mouthful of food.

He was mostly right, but the profound weariness by the end of the day was expected; the pounding headache, not so much. He was beyond exhausted, _ramblin' on_ by pure habit. It was like kicking a man when he's down, requiring him to sing _Oh Happy Day_ for his last class, especially since Mrs. Winkler was ornery because a third of the choir line caught some semblance of the virus that was going around school for the season and nothing sounded right. No one was happy by the end of the day _at all_.

When the bell rang, he gathered his things and just wanted to use the very last of his energy to grab Sammy and then run back to bed. He couldn't help the groan that escaped his lips when his path was intercepted by Mrs. Winkler.

"Dean," she said, and he perforce stopped walking, "You did a good job today."

His brows must have shot up to the sky in surprise, because she ended up laughing, the first he'd seen her smile today.

"You have an excellent tone," she went on, "A fair range, great control. It was a pleasant surprise for me, especially given today's unfortunate turnout."

"There's a but here that I'm waiting for."

"Can't you just take a compliment?" she asked him.

"Everyone says that," he sighed, waiting for her expectantly.

"You would do fabulously with greater feeling," she said at last.

"Feeling," he repeated, flatly. His eyes were crossing in irritation. He was tired and annoyed and antagonistic. _Can you feel this_?

"None of that now," she said softly, knowingly, "As you know, practical exams are in the next few days. The class will be singing together, but I will be pausing before each and every student to hear their vocal contribution. While I don't expect the next big rockstar to be coming from my class, I do hold certain students with larger potential to a higher standard of grading. You are now one of them."

"You mean piss-poor singers can get a higher grade than me?" Dean asked.

"To put it bluntly," she replied, "If they make a show of trying a hell of a lot harder than you do, then the answer is a very resounding yes."

"Even Larry?!" Dean couldn't help but exclaim, speaking of a sullen-looking guy who always stood beside him and whose singing made him cross-eyed with pain.

"Larry," Mrs. Winkler sighed, "He says it's not a tone issue, it's a style and that the rest of the world will understand one day."

Dean blanched, "I'm no singer but I'm not deaf and he's god-awful!"

"But he does try very hard," Mrs. Winkler pointed out, "He is even involved in extracurricular activities in music, signs of interest and participation that you should also be thinking about, because _I _most certainly think about them."

"Isn't that unfair?" he snapped.

"Life is unfair," she said, taking no offense, "To whom much is given, much is expected, and all that. You are lucky enough to be fairly gifted, and I look forward to hearing you when you finally let yourself go. And so, I must repeat: w_ith feeling_, Dean."

He sighed, "There's just no pleasing some people."

"You may go," she said mildly.

" " "

"How are the candy bars selling today?" Dean asked his brother as they walked side by side on the road home. Their pace was slower than the usual and if Sam noticed it, he didn't bring it up. It was just that Dean's bag felt like someone had shoved bricks in there, he was getting a little winded, and the slight breezes were making him feel cold. He coughed lightly, turned his face away from his brother so as not to pass him that school bug he might have picked up.

"Pretty good," Sam replied, "That was a great call you made on the diet bars, Dean. We're always out at the end of the day."

"Women, Sammy," Dean said with a self-satisfied smirk, "They all want the same thing. Diet bars, fancy cars and--"

"I know what you're gonna say..." Sam groaned.

"--_Me_," Dean said so nevertheless.

"At least you're kinda back to being your terrible self," Sam said, peering up at him worriedly, "You're okay, right? Honestly?"

"I'm always okay," Dean snapped, "I'm just tired. I got thrown into freezing water for crying out loud; I'm entitled to like, one day of sleep with no one wondering why. Please stop bringing it up. I just wanna be tired in peace."

"I'm worried," Sam said simply, embarrassing his older brother into silence.

"So," Dean said after a moment, "How's the essay coming along?"

"I'm still stuck," Sam answered, "_The Youth of Today, The Youth of Today_... what original thing can I do with that?"

"How much is the prize money this time?" Dean asked.

"It's a bigger contest now," Sam said, "A couple thousand dollars. It's gonna be enough to keep the clubs for the rest of the school year."

Dean whistled, "Well I'm sure you'll come up with something."

"What do you think?" Sam asked.

Dean frowned, hesitating. "Kids now are just that: kids. It's the same every generation, it's just the fixations that change."

"What do you mean?"

Dean scratched the back of his head, "Look at it this way. All moms don't want their daughters wearing mini-skirts, right? Same story since they invented the damn things. Mini-skirter from the 60's pissed of her momma wearing them, and now she's a mom herself and her daughter likes Paris Hilton and wears something shorter to piss her off. It's like karmic retribution, paying forward the piss. Youth is all about, you know, rebellion, change, sometimes hope. _Revolution_. It's just the objects of change that, well, _change_. It was mini skirts and bikinis, man, it was Elvis and rock and roll, and the Beatles' shaggy hair. It was the summer of love, the sexual revolution, heavy metal, alternative music..."

"Revolution," Sam echoed, looking so enlightened that Dean reddened in embarrassment, "So change has to come from us."

"Right up until you become the Man," Dean pointed, "And then you gotta get ready to be annoyed with the next generation. Or get overthrown."

"We don't have to be like our fathers, Dean," Sam said. It was a loaded statement that had his older brother looking at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Dean said, "Circle of life, man."

As the brothers walked on, Sam had the sudden realization that youth - in the hopeful, revolutionary manner as Dean had described it - did not apply to them at all. They were never young. In the Winchester house there was no rebellion, no choice, no future of overthrowing the Man (_a.k.a. Dad_). They were all about old cars, old clothes, old music, old rules, old habits. Everything had to be in a certain order, all in the name of safety and righteousness. _This has to be done, people are dying, your mother's killer is still out there, you have to protect yourself from the dark_... There was no room for mistakes. It might have been a life of discipline and courage, but at the same time, paradoxically one that was controlled and maintained by fear.

" " "

Dean went straight to bed on a 'power nap,' asking to be woken an hour before their dad returned home from work so that he could prepare them dinner. Sam sat on his own bed, reading up on schoolwork and sporadically looking up to check on his brother. Dean slept fitfully, and it didn't take a genius to see that the dunk in the lake that cold, cold night two days ago was catching up with him.

Sam watched him sleep and made a decision just as the hour came up that he had to wake Dean. He picked up the phone and used some of the money he had set aside for himself to order pizza instead of waking up Dean to make dinner. He knew he made the right call when the delivery man came and went and Dean didn't even rouse to the sound of the doorbell.

A few minutes after he paid for the pizza and set the table for dinner, his dad walked in and looked at the spread in surprise.

"I had some money set aside from my essay winnings," Sam explained, "Thought I'd treat you guys."

"You should have just saved it," John said, helplessly frugal because of their lifestyle. But he caught himself too and said, "But this looks great Sammy. Thanks."

"And um..." Sam hesitated, looking in the direction of their bedroom, "Dean's not feeling so well so I thought this would be better, he wouldn't have to cook and stuff."

"What's on his plate?" John asked with a wince.

"He's been sleeping a lot," Sam reported, "And I thought he might have had a temperature yesterday but he just shrugged it off and seemed okay. I'm not so sure today. His resistance was pretty low after the dip in the lake, and there's a bug going around school."

John planted his things down, "All right, let me go check on him. You stay here; you know he hates it when we hit him two against one."

"Okay, dad."

"Good work looking out for your brother, Sam," John said haltingly, before walking away.

" " "

_That little runt didn't wake me up_, was the first thought that came to mind, even before he opened his heavy-lidded eyes. Dean heard his father's distinct footfalls, smelled the traces of sweat, grease and gas mixed in with soap and aftershave that stayed on his clothes as he entered his sons' room.

Dean tried to open his eyes, he did, but they were stubborn with fatigue, and he just turned his face to the side of the bed that dipped with his father's weight.

"You shoulda stayed home today," John told him quietly, knowing he was awake.

Dean licked his chapped lips. The nap had done him no good at all, and if anything he felt infinitely worse. He was heavy all over, and his nerves were raw, as if everything that touched his skin hurt him; even the air felt sharp. His chest felt a little tight, like he had just gone for a short run.

He grunted in defeat at the gentle admonishment, and then successfully pried his eyes open at last. The room had a dull, flat, nauseating sheen, but he knew it was his vision that was clouded.

"I felt fine," he rasped, licking at his lips again. He gasped at the dryness in his throat, turned away from his father and coughed into his sleeve so as not to pass along whatever bug he had apparently caught.

His father pressed a cool hand on the back of his neck, reminding Dean of Sam. "You're running a temp, kiddo."

"I figured," Dean whispered as he closed his eyes again. The dull-look of the room was making him feel ill. He curled slightly on himself, one hand to his rolling stomach and the other over his cloudy chest.

His father rubbed at his back, hesitantly. Dean stiffened because he felt his father's unease; when was the last time they'd done this, after all? But he let himself be consoled, and let John settle into the increasingly unfamiliar, fatherly role that he's been abandoning more and more lately. John's touch eventually softened, and rubbed at his back more warmly and heartily. Dean relaxed with the rhythmic motion, as John relaxed back to being just a dad.

There was a tickle in his throat that Dean tried his hardest to stifle, not wanting to do anything that would rock the boat or change the atmosphere, or scare his father back to the role of the more certain hunter. He held the cough in for a piteous moment, before it rebelliously erupted out of him in a gripping spell that had tears leaking from the corners of his eyes from lack of air, had his body doubling over tighter.

John pounded on his son's back to beat at the congestion. The hacking finally ended and Dean just laid still with his eyes shut tight, head pillowed on his arm as he tried to catch a breath. He had broken to a cold sweat with the effort, and he shuddered with chills.

Missing nothing, John pulled the thin blanket up to Dean's shoulder, "Have you eaten?"

Dean shook his head vigorously in what was apparently an economical '_No I haven't'_ and '_No I don't want to_.'

"I can't give you anything unless you eat," John said, "And you need something to fight this, so you're eating, all right?"

Dean pried his eyes open again, "But dad..."

"Dean!"

"Yes, sir," Dean whispered, gulping against the misery and nausea as he pushed away at the blanket his father had just covered him with.

"Where are you going?" his father asked him.

"I can eat outside," Dean insisted. He shivered again, but ignored it as he pushed himself up to sit, and then to stand. He felt heavy and inexplicably _large_ and conspicuous, imagined his feet were pounding on the ground like _Godzilla_'s. Every step thundered in his ears, booming. The things in his way – chairs, tables, couch – they looked so small, like little buildings he could just crush. He felt his father walking behind him every step of the way, near but not imposing. John reared him to be tough, and if he wanted to eat he damn well was going to get it himself. But he also knew that if he fell, his dad would catch him.

"You look like shit," Sam commented from where he sat on the table, waiting for his father and brother to join him for dinner.

Dean didn't hear him and just stared blissfully at the pizza. It was a rare treat in the Winchester house, and even if his mind was clouded by illness, he knew where the money for it came from and why it was spent today.

"Wow," he breathed, grinning at his brother.

The look he gave Sam must have been so uncharacteristically disarmed though, because Sam's own face crumpled from worry and displeasure to a proud, quirking smile.

The three Winchesters sat down to eat, and Sam put a slice of pizza on each of their plates.

"So this essay of yours," John said as he took a big bite. Sam watched his father munch on the slice, and he had this subtly appreciative look that made Sam wonder if maybe he missed things like this too.

"It was about the environment," Sam replied, "Sustainable Development, in particular."

"Huh," John commented, chewing quietly. There was a silence at the table that was a little bit unfamiliar, and Sam turned to Dean expectantly.

His older brother was chewing on a small bite, swallowed thickly. He turned a little paler and he closed his eyes.

"Dean?"

Dean opened his eyes and looked at Sam intensely, "I'm good, Sam."

Sam glanced at his father, who was staring at Dean thoughtfully.

"Just have a little Dean," John said, "Enough so that I can give you some meds."

Dean nodded, turned green and regretted it, and then forced another bite into his mouth.

"Maybe you should just have crackers and soup," Sam said quickly, getting up from his seat as if to prepare something else.

"I'm good, I said!" Dean snapped, before softening, "Sammy, come on. Sit back down, man. When's the next time I'm gonna sit down to a spread like this, huh?"

Sam, for lack of a better option and finding comfort in Dean taking control, did as he was told. "Just... don't force it if you can't... I won't get upset."

"You kidding?" Dean asked, "I love pizza."

He finished a third of the slice before he exhaustedly pushed the plate away, and he felt so sick that he was left with either running to the bathroom to lose whatever he tried so hard to eat, or he swallowed his pride and buried his face in his hands and force the world to settle down. He decided on the latter, planting his elbows on the table and covering his face with a groan.

Their dad handed him a few pills and a drink of water, and then ordered him into bed.

" " "

It was like _deja vu_, waking up feeling like he had just shut his eyes. It was... waking up in the sense that he was aware of what was going on around him, but not waking up to the point of participating. Dean felt so sick; just plainly heavy and nauseous. The worst kind of headache in the world was the kind that didn't go away even with the closing of his eyes, and he was riding one of them. The world beneath his eyelids was pitch black, all shadow and indistinctness; why the hell would he think anything in it was moving?

He stayed awake like that for awhile, he didn't know how long. He stayed as still as he could, wanting the world to just _stop_ for a minute.

"Dean?" Sam called out quietly, voice hesitant and small in the dark. He didn't feel like responding; he didn't want to move anything at all. He felt his brother's cool hands on his head. It was so soothing that he might have whimpered _a little_ (this will be deniable later), but this was only to his detriment; the hand went away in a breath and he heard Sam's feet pounding out the room, moments before it came back, trailed by the heavier footfalls of their dad.

"Good god, dad," Dean gasped when his father shook him by the shoulders to get him awake, "Stop that, _please_." It felt like an earthquake in his head.

"You're burning up something fierce," John told him, "Time to take more meds, and I think I want you on a cold bath."

"Leave me alone," Dean moaned when his father shook him again, "It'll go away, if you go away."

"Dean, come on," John urged, pulling him up.

Dean muttered a curse when the world just _turned_ on its axis and up was down, and then started to float on its side, head over heels, twirling over and over and-- he gagged, and felt his father manhandle him to the bathroom where he promptly lost all the spoils from _Sustainable Development_.

"Oh," he heard Sam breathe from somewhere behind him, "Pizza. God... I'm so sorry, Dean."

Dean was on his knees on the cold tile of the bathroom and his father was at a desperate crouch behind him, trying to keep him from breaking into little pieces.

"Not your fault," Dean said quickly, barely with spaces between the words because if he wanted to say anything comprehensible he had to say quickly, within the small gaps allowed by his heaving body.

Dean's body clenched and folded, clenched and folded over and over as he retched out the little food he had painstakingly tried to consume hours before. Sam closed his eyes miserably, clinging to the memory of Dean grinning at the spread of food earlier in the night instead of him throwing it all up right now.

The three of them stayed that way for a good number of minutes, before Dean's rebelling body started to calm down a little. He slumped heavily in his father arms, and John squeezed him assuringly tighter for a second before moving aside and leaning him against the wall.

"Watch him," John commanded to Sam, "I'll get the water running."

Sam did as instructed, sitting against the wall next to his brother, their shoulders touching. Dean was drifting, lilting to the side. Sam grabbed the sleeve of his t-shirt, swung him over to fall against Sam instead of on empty air. Things were quiet for a little while, before Dean moaned and he scrambled back to the toilet, where he started heaving again. Sam held him tight to keep him from falling.

The water ran in the shower, its coolness striking the air and making Dean shiver. Throwing up was a shock to anyone's system; it was unnatural, and it assaulted and exhausted almost every part of the body. Rolling stomach, tightening muscles, burning bile up the throat, sick taste, headache, bruised knees from the floor, cramping fingers from hanging onto anything...

"There's a school of thought," Sam rambled on nervously as he watched his brother tremble, "That in dealing with people suffering from the flu, the goal is to keep them eating and drinking. So this means that you should give them their favorite things, like pizza and soda, to keep their appetite and to keep them hydrated. I guess I should have stuck with the lighter stuff."

He held Dean tighter as a particularly tight clenching of his stomach had him bending so low that he could have lost his head inside the toilet. Dean braced his arms against the sides of the bowl as spasm after spasm rocked his body. He was clearly exhausted, his body torn between turning itself inside out and going dead asleep. Dean was wiped out and running even more out of steam. He went from drifting to violently sick and then back again, over and over. When he finally stopped for an unprecedentedly long time, Sam suspected that they've been kneeling on the tiles for almost an hour by now.

"Not your fault," Dean said again. He stopped heaving and he rested his heavy, aching head on a folded arm over the rim of the bowl as he tried to calm his harsh breathing. For a long time, it was just his breathing echoing off the walls, along with the sound of running water. They sounded magnified in the small space.

"Let's get you to the bath," John decided.

"Wait," Dean begged quietly, savoring the stillness, "Just... just gimme a sec. I'll get in myself I just... I just really need a sec."

John let him try and settle down a little bit more, stepping out of the room and then coming back with a bottle of water and pills in his hand. He had that mixed look of displeasure and concern again, and Sam was unsure which expression was more prominent, the same way he wondered if John Winchester was more hunter than father by now.

"I'm sorry," Dean said into the quiet, raising his face up to his father, "Don't bother, dad, please, I can just handle--" His body spasmed again, but he just bit his lip against it, "It's late," he started over, voice sounding pinched, "You got work in a couple of hours, and that hunt after...You have to be rested... 'specially since I don't think I can h-help..."

John stepped forward, Sam watching his face carefully. It softened and hardened between inconvenience and worry (_hunter or father...?_).Sam made sure Dean was steady before he scooted aside to make room for their dad and whoever the hell he turned out to be.

"That stomach of yours calming down?" John asked him gruffly as he sat on his haunches in front of Dean.

"Some," Dean gasped, wincing. The three of them were hoping it wasn't a lie.

"You need to drink," John said, "And you need more pills to douse that fever with. Then you're hitting the bath."

"'Kay," Dean said as he gulped, "Gimme. Let's just get rid of this shit."

John gave him the pills, which he slipped into his mouth and dry-swallowed. The water John mostly yielded to Dean's shaking hand, but held steady at the bottom as he drank slowly, and little by little. Dean sighed and sank a little when he finally finished the glass.

"Good boy," John said, patting him on the arm, "That staying down?"

"I think so," Dean said, slumping back recklessly and falling on Sam, who was taken aback but recovered his balance enough to catch Dean, and then sit against the wall with his brother leaning against him.

"You're all bones, Sam," Dean berated him with half-closed eyes, "Should eat more."

Sam pressed his lips together, and looked at his father worriedly. He could feel the heat from his brother just radiating off of him in waves. Sam was starting to sweat just by the brief contact. "He's really hot, dad," he said quietly.

"Let's get him to the bath and cooled down," John said, rising to his feet and studying his sons. He leaned over and slung one of Dean's arms over his shoulders, and then carefully hoisted him up.

The movement had unsettled Dean though, and a he let out a low, guttural whine a second before he started to choke and gag again.

"God--!" John exclaimed, taking the two of them back to the ground, on their knees. He held one arm around Dean's chest to hold him steady, and used his other hand to hold Dean's head over the toilet bowl by the chin as he gagged up water, bile, bits of food and depressingly, undissolved pills.

His son's body felt like it was burning in his arms, and it just kept jerking and tightening spasmodically, just before his eyes rolled back in his head and he went completely limp in his father's grip, falling boneless against him. John collapsed back against the tile wall, on his ass beside a pale and stunned Sam, Dean lying against his chest unconscious. They were all breathless in the small bathroom.

"Dad...?" Sam called out to him, voice trembling. John shook beside him, making him all the more afraid. "Dad--"

"Towels," came the swift, curt command, as if John had just reclaimed himself. Sam blinked once, and then scrambled past Dean and John and handed a towel to his dad. John used it to wipe at Dean's face, and then opened his son's mouth to make sure his airway was also clear.

"Dean?" he called out, shaking Dean slightly, "Dean? Come on, son."

Dean's brows furrowed, and he blinked his eyes half-open. While the fact that he responded was encouraging, in many ways it was a scarier sight because his eyes were glazed and listless.

"Grab the keys to the car and open all the doors from here to the Impala," John ordered Sam, "And grab my cellphone."

Sam went on auto-pilot with that tone, and it was assuring and terrifying at the same time, how his fear just sent him back to blind faith. It's not that Dean's never been sick or hurt before, it's just that he's never been this _naturally_ ill. When there was no spell to break, no poison to fight, no enemy to blame or defeat, the Winchester men were just as helpless as normal people thrown into regular problems. It was an ironic version of normal, Sam thought as he hurried to do as his father ordered, a perversion of his desire to be just like everyone else.

He next sees Dean wrapped up in a blanket, oblivious and completely limp in his father's arms, eyes closed now. Life was really subjective sometimes, he marveled, thinking that Dean looked so big on his feet next to their father when he's all geared up for a hunt and covering Sam, but he could still look so small and frail wrapped up like that.

"Sam, backseat," John ordered, and Sam slid in. John settled Dean against his younger brother, and then ran back to the house to lock it. He also picked up his phone and was on the tail-end of informing the ER that he was driving in with his son when he stepped behind the wheel of the Impala and gunned the engine.

" " "

Sam has been on countless waiting rooms before, for dad's injuries or Dean's from a hunt gone south, or blearily waiting as Dean or his dad settled bills and instructions with doctors if it was he who had gotten hurt. He's never sat here for his brother suffering a sickness, however, never sat in wait for something so natural and normal before.

He looked around him, saw other people waiting for their loved-ones with drawn-weary faces and stricken expressions in their eyes. He knew he looked just like them. He and his family were hunters, but they didn't have a monopoly on suffering and heartache. As he had told Dean – life was hard enough without the hunt.

Sure, he could not dispute the righteousness of his father or his brother or even himself in pursuing the things that made the night even darker. But how could anyone begrudge him and his brother their youth too, and their chances to live out their lives? How could it be wrong to think that his brother is getting the short end of the deal when he's sick and puking his guts up on the ground while apologizing for being to ill to do a job most grown men would quake at, to apologize for being less than superhuman?

Life was hard enough without the hunt...

... and for the first time he dared to think the forbidden: _Mom's dead. None of what we can do can bring her back. She wouldn't want this for us, no mother would._

**To be continued...**

Thanks for reading. C&C's are as welcome as always. 'Til the next post!


	4. Bits and Pieces

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **Heroes for Ghosts**

Summary:It's a time of change. While Sam had always looked up to Dean as a brother, stand-in father & hunter, Dean has to step up when the school is in financial trouble and Sam needs a different kind of hero: a good student? Dean is just a little out of his element. Set post-_After School Special_.

**Hi guys**,

First off, thanks for all who read, alerted and reviewed the last chapter of_ Heroes for Ghosts_. I've sent most people responses, but please expect more explanations and thanks to come in my afterword. I have officially finished writing this fic, so expect a post every few days (getting a lot of reviews kind of excites me to post sooner which is why I do the non-strategic thing and just post every few days instead of pacing properly, haha, so drop me a line if you could). It'll end with Chapter 5, and be followed by an epilogue and my standard post-fic afterword.

Anyway, as always, c&c's are welcome and without further ado:

" " "

**Heroes for Ghosts**

" " "

**4: Bits and Pieces**

_1997_

" " "

"I was just here," he heard his father say to himself quietly and so wearily, that Sam stared at John Winchester for a long moment, in wonder.

"He'll be fine won't he?" Sam asked.

"He's always fine," John said, "Are you all right?"

"I don't like seeing him like that," Sam admitted, "You know Dean, he'd fight tooth and nail and doesn't stop until he's knocked out."

"I need to get the research out of the car," John sighed, "For while we wait."

"Can't you give the job to someone else?" Sam asked, "Dean is sick, dad, he's really, really sick."

"I was just here," John murmured to himself again before saying more loudly, "There's not enough hunters out there to do everything that needs doing, Sam, and we can't pass the job on so late in the game. The timing is important. The moon-"

"_Dean_ is important," Sam blurted out before he could stop himself.

"You think I'm not worried about your brother?" John snapped.

"I know you're worried," Sam said, turning angry now, "And I saw how scared you were. You held him like I did and I know you felt him burn, dad. Of course you're worried. That's why I'm wondering why we're even having this conversation. This shouldn't even be a choice. You should just be here with him."

"It's not a choice between the job and your brother, Sam," John argued, "Dean's well-cared for and we can't do anything better for him. But the people out there? If we don't do this, someone's gonna get hurt."

"Not a choice?!" Sam scoffed, "Are you kidding me? Of course it's a choice!"

"Watch your goddamn tone with--"

"No," Sam said, nose flaring and surprising himself.

"What?!"

Sam hesitated, and then felt bolder with every second of silence that he held in his control, "_No_. It needs saying and you're gonna hear it, dad. Of course it's a choice. Strangers out there need us, _fine_, but you're blind if you can't see how much Dean needs you too, how much he looks up to you, how much he looks after you, how much he covers for you. Now there's only one you, and you can't be in two places at the same time so yeah, I'd call wherever you'll be a choice."

"Samuel-" John warned.

"No!" Sam said again and he felt afire with it, felt like he could really like that word and that tone from now on, "I understand that whatever we're doing is important and that people need us. I get it, I do. But can't you just be a father, for once? Skip the hunt, and just be here. The same way we should just be kids sometimes, be normal."

John looked red with anger at the assault, but he took a few deep breaths, and his look softened. "I can't just be father or hunter at one time and then different in the next, Sam. When you mother died... I've had to be both, all the time. I can't be a good father if I'm not a hunter, because that's how I can protect you from what's out there, and it's how I teach you to do the right thing. You can't have your old man in bits and pieces, picked over. The same way you can't cut up life in neat little compartments - natural or supernatural, normal or not – and throw some away and keep the rest. Whether or not you live our life or a 'normal' one, there are things out there that puts people in danger. There's no escaping from any of it, Sam, there's no escapiing being a hunter and the things in the dark. You're deluding yourself, if you think you can just pick what you want."

Sam's eyes watered in frustration. It couldn't be true, this death-trap. He felt the desire to escape more than ever. _Rebellion. Revolution_... maybe he'll be the first one ever to escape, the one to prove his father wrong.

"Please just stay with us," Sam said quietly.

"We'll check on Dean," John said, "And then we'll see."

"I told you it was a choice," Sam mumbled.

" " "

It was a bad version of the flu that was going around, likely from his lowered immunity of the last few days. It looked bad and the state Dean was brought in was admittedly serious, but the bottom-line was that the kid had just tired himself out fighting the virus on his own because he was unable to take in food or medicine. It thankfully hadn't progressed to anything worse. The doctors said it was wise to have brought Dean around, because he could have easily slid toward complications if not examined by professionals and treated with prescription medicine. The hospital visit was like a re-start button; it should give him the strength to keep going on his own.

The prognosis was highly positive, and Dean was even conscious when they were finally allowed to see him, eyes open and aware even if not alight. He was lying on the bed at an angle instead of flat; it was kinder to his breathing. There were two IV lines connected to his left arm to manage his pain and to replace lost fluids. His hair was still wet from a sponge bath that had lowered his temperature. He was gray and shivering slightly, curled up on his right side, his right arm curved somewhere between his chest and stomach as if he didn't know which to hold together first. The lights were low, and the doctors said it was because he also had a headache. They would hold him until he was more stable, but he could be brought home with the proper medication.

"Why are you two still here?" he asked as they came into his room, voice uncharacteristically thin.

"No one can take this one from your side, huh?" John said of Sam, good-naturedly.

"You on the other hand..." Sam muttered.

"What was that?" John growled.

"Did I miss anything?" Dean asked.

"No, nothing," Sam sighed, moving closer to Dean, "Hey, man."

" " "

Dean was allowed to check out of the hospital late the following day, and John had picked up his prescriptions and left him in Sam's capable (if _disapproving_) hands before flying off to go on his hunt.

The brothers watched him drive away from the living room window, standing side by side. Dean's hand was on Sam's shoulder, and this was a familiar stance in their childhood except, instead of offering his younger brother comfort, he was borrowing some balance this time.

"I wish he didn't have to do it alone," Dean mumbled, "This damned bug! I should have been more careful."

"It's not your fault," Sam sighed, pissed less at the situation and more at his dad, though he had been civil in saying goodbye, going along the principle that any goodbye could be their last one and shouldn't end on a sour note.

Dean shakily let go of Sam and immediately sank on the couch, looking drained and not much better than the day before. He was still severely ill, but stable enough to be moved out of the hospital and back home.

"Come on Dean," Sam said, "To bed, man. Don't make my job any harder."

That predictably got Dean off his weary ass, and he did behave the best he could under the circumstances. Unfortunately, it turned out that it was easier to keep pain and sickness at bay in a hospital where he was constantly on an IV; once back home, he was also back on his knees in front of the toilet losing his meals.

Sam called up Dean's doctor in mild panic. The doctor told him that he shouldn't expect the short stint in the hospital to heal his brother right away. The symptoms would still be there; he just had to watch his brother carefully and make sure he was hydrated and took his medicines, and that he remained alert. Listlessness like that of the previous night or any other disruptions in awareness, difficulties in breathing, and a rise in temperature should be signs that Dean needed to be brought back in immediately, though. And so Sam did as advised; he kept a sharp eye on Dean's every action, every movement, every sound. He noted that while Dean was still undeniably sick, he was showing slow signs of improvement and retaining lucidity. Sam stood guard for two nights and three days, up until their dad came back from the hunt and took over.

Somewhere in those three days was the deadline for the submission of the _Youth of Today_ essay, which he never got to do. Sam wasn't so worried about Dean that he forgot. He knew the date well, by god he knew. It was just that he consciously gave up working on it to look after his brother because between Dean and anything in the world, there was no choice, no competition. It would always be Dean first.

Besides... he felt a certain kind of morbid satisfaction to the pain of having missed the deadline, because it just proved that he was nothing like his father and that he was willing to pay the price for it.

" " "

Dean had told Marthena that if one watched more than participated, a guy gets to spot some things that other people might miss. Forced by illness into quiet observation, Dean became nothing but a witness to the gradually escalating tension between the growing force of nature that was Samuel Winchester, and their father the immovable object.

_Where'd this come from_, Dean wondered after Sam had retorted something at his father that did not catch John by surprise at all, as if Sam had done it before. John didn't warn Sam about the mutinous, disrespectful tone like he would have if it was the first time, he just retorted something back. They were like two puppies nipping at each other, shallow cuts and loud barks before backing away, as if afraid to elevate the exchange to a fight neither was sure they could win. John would catch himself as if he remembered he was the adult and be the first to calm, or Sam would suddenly hesitate, looking like a bird caught midair that suddenly remembered it was still learning to fly.

John's as gruff as he'd always been, and Sam was always an earnest kid, even underneath the angsty sullenness he had acquired after he discovered the truth about their lives. But Sam had been on edge since they left that last high school, became quicker to anger and more willing to kick back. And John was changing too because he was bad with this novelty of his authority being challenged. They've been dancing a little around it, but Dean knew for a certainty now that something had broken when he wasn't watching, when he couldn't, at the very height of his illness. Something broke, something changed, and now things were different.

"What's going on with you?" he asked Sam one night, as they were both lying down on their beds. Sam had just finished an argument with their dad, something relating to plans of moving again after Dean graduated. Dean was lying on his side, curled around a still-tender stomach and shivering slightly under a thin blanket.

Sam was staring up at the ceiling, silent for a long moment. "He never asks us... never asks us if it's okay."

"Dad has his reasons for the things he does," Dean said.

"So do I!"

"_Stop_ getting mad at me by substitute," Dean growled at him.

"I can't!" Sam snapped, "You're taking over everything he's supposed to be facing and doing anyway, right, what's one more thing? I'm pissed at him and you cover for him all the time so_ yeah_,I can get pissed at you. Besides, I'm sure you're used to cleaning up his mess."

"Sam, geez," Dean breathed, "Sammy, hey man, seriously. What's going on with you?"

He heard his younger brother gather his breath in the dark, had a suspicion that he was crying already. He got up, was about to reach for the lights.

"Dean please keep the lights out," Sam said in a small voice, making Dean pause, change trajectories and sit on his brother's bed, right by his head.

"Hey," Dean urged, "Come on, Sammy. Talk to me."

"Mr. Wyatt," Sam replied shakily, "He told me I was a really good writer."

"That teacher up in Truman," Dean remembered, "Well of course he'd think that."

"He said I could be a writer," Sam said quietly, "I told him I couldn't, 'cos... 'cos I gotta do what my dad does, what _we _do, the family business. He asked me if I wanted to, and you know, it just came to me that no one's ever asked me that before. No one's ever asked me, not even you."

There was mild accusation there that Dean couldn't miss; as if Sam felt that there was one thing Dean hadn't been able to protect him from.

"Sammy..." Dean said helplessly, "The hunt... it's just one of those things that needs doing."

"But haven't we done enough?" Sam asked, "I don't want to do this Dean, not forever. I can't."

"But if we didn't," Dean asked, "Who would?"

"Is this the whole '_if someone had been there for mom_' speech?" Sam asked, bitterly, "I'm gonna say this 'cos it's needs saying, Dean, but... but mom, she's dead. We're still here, and we're living like a bunch of ghosts."

"So what do you want?" Dean asked, "To just stop?"

"I wanna be a kid," Sam said, "I wanna be normal. I wanna be like everyone else. I wanna worry about fundraisers and migraines and the flu, and not whether or not I'll wake up to find I'm the only Winchester left."

"But it's all fake, Sam," Dean said, "All of it: the normal things, the peaceful things, all the high school drama... all of it is protected by people like us. They are alive and functioning because we are willing to do the work. Everything out there in the day? That's just a dream, none of it is real."

He found himself thinking about Truman High too. He'd felt indignant when he first felt his then-girlfriend Amanda's pity about the status of his home-life. It was why he had acted out, got into trouble that had only proven her more right:_ We Both know that you're just a sad, lonely little kid and I feel sorry for you, Dean. _He wanted to tell her who he really was, wanted to show her he didn't need her or her pity because he wasn't just fine, he was a hero and that they owed the maintenance of their fake-world to guys like him. They had no right to feel sorry for him. Their fake-world was a front, an act, a _toy_ to him. He knew what was real, he was the hero of what was real and he ached so much with the desire to prove it to them.

"I wanna dream too," Sam retorted, "I wanna sleep, I wanna rest, I want a home and a future. I want to be somebody, I want to be good at something else, and I want someone to protect us for a change."

"I protect you," Dean said tightly.

"And what about the other stuff?" Sam countered, "The dreams, the home, the future... you're not... you're not gonna be enough, Dean. I want you to be, but you're not."

Something broke inside of him with the realization that the little man wouldn't just be trailing after him anymore, that they were truly different people being ushered into different paths. He hadn't realized until now just how much that last high school had branded him and his brother. Sam had discovered that there was an exit to their way of life, while Dean had discovered that he couldn't get out, couldn't get rid of the taint of it, and couldn't let anyone else in.

" " "

Dean returned to school ten days after his release from the hospital. He was thinner, looking drawn and gray, and was still prone to being winded and shaky. But he had recovered his good spirits, and had justified his return to school over breakfast with a con-man's theory:

"You have to go back to school after a long absence while still looking sickly," he said over a mouthful of food, "It's like, the optimal time to get away with a lot of things, especially if you have to catch up on a lot of work."

John had let him go under Sam's protests (_a common occurrence lately_), but appeased him by calling the nurse about Dean's decision to return to school and requiring Dean to report to her once during lunchtime and once more before going home just to make sure he did not overexert himself.

The arrangement was fair enough to make everybody happy, and Dean did go to school achieving most of the work-evasion that he was hoping to gain by his early return. That was, until he walked into Mrs. Winkler's room.

"Ah, he lives," she welcomed him back at the start of the class. She gave him sheet music for _Amazing Grace_ and asked him to sit back and just listen for today so he can learn how far the class had gone. He did as he was told, diligently trying to look heroically tired but determined, up until the class ended and she asked him to stay back.

"Oh Dean," she said, giving him a sympathetic once-over before her lip quirked in that dry humor again, "Don't you look--"

_Sick? Ill? Sacrificing? Hard-working?_

"Manipulative," she decided, smiling at him slickly.

He gave her one right back, a kind-of _touche _between them.

"However," she sighed, "A bad case of the flu that had floored you for ten days and brought you to the hospital is certainly a big deal, no matter what you chose to get out of it afterwards. You know... you missed the last practical exam."

He nodded, "I'm not sure how you want to go about that. We can't have everybody singing the old song just to grade me when they've all already moved on to a new one, right? You wanna just give me extra credit for something? Ask me to see a show or listen to CD or write a paper?"

"I've actually given this some thought," she said, "What I teach are the techniques, and the song is just a showcase of what you've learned. You can perform any song, and not necessarily sung with everyone else, as long as you can show me what you've learned."

His cheeks actually flushed. "I can't just... you know, sing in front of you."

"Dean," she sighed again, "This is fair. I'll give you a week to practice. Gimme a song, any song, and go from one verse to one chorus to one bridge, and that's it. Or something very short."

"And if I just skip this?"

"This is thirty percent of your final grade," she said, "You can pass the class, assuming you perfect everything else which I think we both know you won't."

He did a quick count of the grade components, and knew he wouldn't even be able to close the deal with the pity points in attendance and participation, much less the other tests and exams.

"Just try," she told him, "It's just me, and as long as you try you're not going to get a zero on this. What's the big deal?"

The big deal was that he didn't like being watched and weighed. He'd stand in front of a werewolf stock-still and shoot it in the heart without breaking a sweat, but singing with an audience that wasn't his dad or Sam? _Ewww_.

"Fine," he growled, "Let's do this now."

"I was going to give you time--"

"No," he said with finality, "You said as long as I try I won't fail so let's go, let's do this now. Now'll be as good a day as any. Let's get this over with."

"All right," she hesitated, "What song?"

He didn't want to pick, because that would have indicated to her that he picked it because he thought he sounded good at it.

"Your call," he replied, surly and annoyed over getting backed into a corner in fricking _music_ class by an old lady.

"Celine Dion?"

He scowled at her.

"Oh lighten up," she scolded him mildly as she picked up her guitar, "I saw you in a Pink Floyd shirt once, and I think the song will match your tone and range. And the singing's pretty short. _Wish You Were Here_?"

"Anything, anything!" he said, "Come on, my brother's gonna go looking for me."

"Pink Floyd it is," she said, "Remember the techniques we talked about in class; control, breathing and pull it from your stomach. Don't hold back, but be self-aware. And remember what we talked about the last time--"

"_Feelings_!" he barked out in frustration, "I'll shove in feeling, I swear. Now please Mrs. W, can we just end this now?"

"A proponent of euthanasia I see," she murmured, "Very well, we'll knock you out of your misery soon enough. Suit yourself. I'll start with part of the intro so you get into the key, and then you know the song so you'll know when to enter and how to go on from there."

"Gogogo," he said anxiously, feeling nervous and just wanting to finish.

She had the long, thin fingers and simple, unpolished nails of a musician. She wasn't even looking at the instrument as her fingers strummed and plucked and rested homely on the fret. She gave him a small nod to enter following the opening keys, and he closed his eyes, pretended she wasn't there and that he was all alone in the shower, and just jumped in.

"_So you think you can tell,_" he began, and his voice shook with his anxiety at the start, before softening the deeper he went into convincing himself that this was just part of the job, part of keeping out of trouble and playing ball so they wouldn't raise alarms, part of the act and the con.

"_Heaven from Hell..._," he went on, "_Blue skies from pain. Can you tell a green field, from a cold steel rail? A smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell?_"

The song went on, seeming impossibly long because he had time to adjust from annoyance to anxiety to cold determination to do the job, and then found that he still had time to adjust to something else. It was something that surprised him, but something that had lit slowly from somewhere in his stomach, and then burned its way up to his furiously beating heart.

_I mean it's a good song_, he corrected himself, _No, a _great _song_.

Who was he not to like it?

"_Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts_?" he sang, "_Hot ashes for trees... Hot air for a cool breeze... Cold comfort for change... And did you exchange a walk-on part in a war for a lead role in a cage?_

"_How I wish, how I wish you were here... We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl year after year... Running over the same old ground, what have we found? The same old fears. Wish you were here_."

She finished the song with a shortened version of the closing bars, time enough for his pleasure to turn into burning embarrassment. He bit at his lip anxiously, not wanting to open his eyes, not wanting to see her face and her eyes and what they might reveal about what she found in him in the few short minutes that he opened his mouth and let _true, naked_ things to come out for a change.

His eyes snapped open when a burst of smattering applause erupted from somewhere to his right the very moment the Mrs. Winkler stopped playing.

"Oh god," he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face in embarrassment as he looked at the one-man standing ovation that was his beaming kid brother, standing by the door.

"Jesus Christ, Sam!" Dean bellowed at his younger brother, realizing that he'd been so occupied that he didn't realize his brother did come looking for him after class. He transferred the annoyance to the teacher. "Are we done?"

She was looking at him with a small light in the eye. He's never seen her like this before, and the gaze did not hold her usual glinting humor, or the passion that she had for her work; it was something calmer, something older, it was... _something_.

"That's an A-plus Mr. Winchester," she told him pleasantly.

His eyes widened for a microsecond in pleasant surprise, before he turned away from her and grabbed his brother, "Whatever, I don't care."

" " "

Sam's feet weren't touching the ground as they walked home after a quick pit-stop at the nurse's office.

"An A-plus, Dean!" he exclaimed for the nth time, "An A-plus!"

"What's the big deal?" Dean seethed, "I get A's... once in awhile."

"With a plus this time!" Sam exclaimed, "Holy cow! And it was so good! I thought _Oh Happy Day _was all right, but I didn't think--"

"Can we just drop this?" Dean snapped, "A-plus, hooray, all done, jumping inside, break out the champagne. Topic done."

"But it was really--"

"Topic done!" Dean barked, punctuating it with the remnants of his cough, which finally silenced Sam.

"Why wouldn't you be proud," the younger Winchester said after a long moment, "You're good at something that isn't hunting."

"So it's something that isn't important," Dean said tightly.

"I'm sorry but it made _me_ happy," Sam retorted, "And it is important."

Dean sighed; here they went again with the life-options debate. He decided to stop making a big deal out of Sam's embarrassing elation over his heretofore undiscovered singing ability, and focused instead on other things that could keep them from getting into another philosophical debate on the questionable existence and merits of the normal world.

"Speaking of," Dean said, "Results of that Youth essay thing come out yet? You never got me to proof it but I figured you didn't want me to bug me with it 'cos I was sick."

"You were," Sam said, suddenly looking uneasy, "So yeah, I didn't bother you with it. Results came out already while you were away. I didn't win."

"Oh I'm sorry to hear that," Dean offered, sincerely, "I'm sure it was great though. I'd wanna read it if you have it at home."

"No!" Sam said quickly, before amending with more control, "I mean it is, but it's obviously pretty crappy if I didn't win, so I'd rather you didn't."

The kid was acting weird, and Dean looked at him more closely. He looked away, as if he knew he'd been found out.

"Aw, Sammy," Dean groaned, "You didn't."

The kid just shrugged at him.

"Aw Sam," Dean groaned again, "It's 'cos I was sick, wasn't it? You couldn't do it 'cos I was--"

"It's not your fault," Sam told him, "It was my decision."

"It hadn't been much of one with me crawling to the bathroom and puking my guts out," Dean beat himself up, "I almost fucked up dad's hunt, and now it's my fault that Latin club's going down the drain."

"Latin club is gonna be fine, Dean," Sam sighed, "I can't say I'm not disappointed, you know that. But I'm just glad you're better. There's more of those things to join and I've only got one big brother, right?"

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"I know," Sam told him, "That's why I didn't wanna tell you. But this isn't your fault, Dean, I swear. We'll figure something else out."

" " "

Dean picked up _Amazing Grace_ easily, given that it was a song he already knew, set on a simple arrangement, and especially because Larry wasn't messing up the keys and singing his own version next to Dean's ear.

When the class ended, he gathered his things quickly and tried to disappear in the throng of exiting students, but Mrs. Winkler has been eying him pointedly since class started and she wasn't about to be derailed now.

"Well you vanished pretty quickly after that test," she told him.

"Why do I never do anything right in this class?" he asked her.

She looked at him warily. "You know, Dean... when I first asked you to try harder, I just wanted to see some effort. I didn't know you would be good, _really good_ right up until you gave Pink Floyd a shot. I wanted to make sure you know how good you are."

He was embarrassed at the praise, so he just grinned at her slyly before he could blush, "I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes," he insisted, "Yes, okay? Now what?"

She hesitated, "You know... Larry has laryngitis."

Dean actually laughed out loud at that, before repeating in as deadpan a voice and expression as he could muster. "Larry has laryngitis."

She smirked at him, "Yes, Dean. God has a sense of humor."

"And good taste in music," Dean added.

She didn't disagree. "I told you that Larry was active in extracurricular musical activity, didn't I? Well, he's in a band. Have you heard of _Riot Act_?"

Dean scratched the back of his head, "I think they're part of that music club, the one in the lineup to get axed unless somebody ponies up some dough, right?"

"That would be one of them, yes," she said, "As you know, everyone's doing everything they can in terms of fundraising: joining contests, selling food, washing cars... you know the cooking club is trying to get into the _Guinness Book of World Records_ by making the largest ever funnel cake?"

Dean snorted, "Yeah and how'd that go?"

"Not so well," she admitted, "Now they also have to raise money to fix Mrs. James' kitchen. Anyway, the music club has a few house groups that are joining an upcoming battle of the bands out of town. _Riot Act_ is one of them. But now that Larry's down with laryngitis--"

"That isn't going to stop being funny," Dean joked, getting an idea of where this was heading.

"The guys asked me to recommend an alternate frontman from promising kids in my classes," Mrs. Winkler said, "Just for the competition, especially since they've already footed the non-refundable registration fee. I'm going to ask them to get in touch with you."

Dean just scoffed at her, "Well let me kill that thought right now: I've thought about it, and the answer is no. Don't anybody waste their time."

"Can I change your mind with a speech about school spirit?" she asked him, though she already looked skeptical. He looked at her pointedly. "I didn't think so," she sighed, "How about doing this in the name of charity? Those poor boys forked over a lot of cash that they're not gonna get back, and they've worked so hard to practice."

"Nope," Dean said, "I'm pretty at ease with my karma and worldly contributions, thanks."

"How about the women-like-rockstars thing?" she tried.

"I have no problem getting women either," he said, "There is absolutely nothing you can say to convince me to join _Larry's_ band. Come on, Mrs. W., and what are they playing? More of his 'the world will understand my style one day' crap?"

"No actually," she said, "One original song, fine, but the other one will be a track from a known artist that serves as a kind-of 'control' for the judges, to see how the participating bands interpret and execute a song. So is that it? I can convince you with the love-of-music angle?"

"No," he said with a shrug, "I'm sorry, but this is just not for me."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "You know, when we have breakout groups to discuss what else we can do for the clubs to make money, your brother is always an active voice."

"What can I say," Dean said, "Geek loves his Latin."

"How about this," she began, "Ten thousand dollars will be going to the funds for the clubs if any of our bands wins the top prize. That's enough to stave off the apocalypse for everybody for a little while... Sam's Latin club included."

Dean narrowed his eyes at her in irritation. He growled in annoyance with himself. "Let's give it a trial shot. They might not want me, I might not want them, but fine. I can talk with 'em. What's the harm? If I make an ass of myself, I'm almost outta here anyway. No one's gonna know me, no one's gonna remember anything, no one's gonna care. But I want that money."

"What can I say," she said quietly from behind him as he turned to leave, "Dean loves his brother."

He pretended not to hear her and just walked away.

" " "

Larry and Dean were never really friends, and a hoarse and territorial Larry decided to make it clear from the get-go that this was a substitution, rather than a replacement. _Riot Act_ met over lunchtime in the music room the day after Mrs. Winkler broke the news to Dean, and he set the ground rules that there would be no Van Halen-esque activities going-on.

"I don't have a problem with that," Dean said, "As long as we get the money and it goes where it's supposed to go."

"Good," Larry said, "And I'll be watching you. I may not be able to sing, but I still play bass so I'm gonna be around the whole time."

"I'm sure nothing will get past you," Dean said sarcastically.

"This is really nice of you, Dean," one of the more timid band members said. His name was Frank, and he was a rail-thin small kid who could very well just fit inside his drumset. Dean shared a P.E. class with him, and Frank was so tiny that he usually landed on his ass at sports. He knew Dean because the young hunter, used to working with toppling civilians, had the best reflexes to break his falls or pick him up. They didn't really exchange words outside of 'Thanks' and 'No problem.'

"I just hope I don't muck it up," Dean said.

"You'd better not," Larry added.

"Why don't you rest that voice, stage mom," Dean snapped at him, "Don't be a hater." Larry shrank a little at the retort; Dean knew the type. He was all mouth and spunk but did not own the balls to walk the walk. He did, however, somehow manage to put together the most un-rockstar bunch of high schoolers Dean had ever seen in his life for the band.

"So this is the original track. It's called _Monster Nature_," another member of the band said to Dean, playing a CD that the band recorded in someone's basement. His name was Brian and he was the keyboardist. He was a little on the hefty side, looked about as big as a baby grand piano. But he had a gigantic, braced-smile that was disarming, and from what Dean could hear on the demo, those chunky fingers just flew on the keys.

"This is really you?" Dean asked him after the introductory bars.

He beamed at Dean even more, as Dean listened. He was surprised by the quality of the music; it was ambitious, large and unapologetic, felt like a throwback to the days of ten-minute songs, per-instrument solos and just sheer, indulgent musicianship, all tossed in with a modern mixer. It was a fusion of classical-sounding piano with hard beats and the intricate strings of southern rock. They made even Larry's mediocre singing passable.

Their lead guitarist, a pale _vampiric _girl Dean always sees in school but has literally never heard speak, handed him the sheet music. She looked exotic and feral, but Dean found out that of all things, her name was Apple.

"So that you can follow along," she told him. The only other girl in the bad was a spunky rich kid named Pearl who did some turntable work for them. _Riot Act _was rounded up by a massive guy named Max, who used to be in the wrestling team until an injury during the season kept him in a leg brace and he got his hands busy doing rhythm guitar instead.

"Larry writes the music," Max told him after the song ended, "Makes up for what he lacks in the voice department." He was still jock enough to have blunt, offensive humor.

"I was coming down with a throat infection!" Larry retorted, and his voice broke for illustration.

"Yeah for the last seventeen years of your life!"

"Cripple!"

They bantered a little more as Dean looked at the sheet music. The notes meant nothing to him, but the words and the tune he remembered, and then just followed the visual rise and fall of the notes on the sheet.

"What's the other song gonna be?" he asked them, cutting into the argument.

"We're gonna offset the force of the original track with a folksier piece," Larry proclaimed, "Something classic and wistful. We're going for Pink Floyd's _Wish You Were Here_."

Dean's brows rose, thinking about the teacher who had brought him here in the first place. When she was grading him, she was also auditioning him. She was one hell of an efficient bitch.

"We usually practice after school right here," Brian told him, "You in?"

"You're just asking me if I want to?" Dean asked, "Just like that? What if I suck?"

"Can't be any worse than-" Max began.

"Can it!" Larry snapped.

Dean sighed, thinking about his younger brother. This was probably bad karma for him because it was his fault Sam missed his essay deadline: the _goddamn_ youth of today was driving him nuts.

**To be continued...**

Thanks for reading and 'til the next post!!!


	5. Wish You Were Here

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **Heroes for Ghosts**

Summary:It's a time of change. While Sam had always looked up to Dean as a brother, stand-in father & hunter, Dean has to step up when the school is in financial trouble and Sam needs a different kind of hero: a good student? Dean is just a little out of his element. Set post-_After School Special_.

**Hi guys**,

Once again, shout out to all who took the time to read, alert, favorite and especially to all who reviewed the last chapter of _Heroes for Ghosts_. As I told you before, haha, the more reviews I receive the more excited I get and suddenly the pacing of the posts completely get lost in my enthusiasm to put up the next chapter, so here it is! Thank you for your support and encouragement. Man, this upcoming chapter was a sad thing to write, but when the idea came to me I just couldn't let it go, so... *sigh* here goes nothing, haha... I'll be happy to hear your thoughts but please don't hate me! Without further ado:

" " "

**Heroes for Ghosts**

" " "

**5: Wish You Were Here**

_1997_

" " "

Dean couldn't keep his participation with _Riot Act _a secret from Sam or his father much as he may have wanted to, because he needed to account for practice time. He broke the news to an ecstatic Sam when they met after school by the younger Winchester's locker.

"I mean I wouldn't be doing it if I didn't owe you," Dean said quickly, trying to quell Sam's embarrassing enthusiasm.

"What do you owe me?" Sam asked.

"For the essay, man," Dean said before looking at his watch, "Look, I gotta go to practice now."

"Can I--"

"No," Dean snapped, "You are not allowed to watch. _Ever_. You watch and I quit, you hear?Go do your homework in the library or something, I'll grab you from there after." He drew out his mobile phone, "I'll have to call up dad, tell him we'll be coming home late for the next few days."

He walked his younger brother to the library, and then told his father that he was going to be involved in some after-school activity, if it was all right.

"What activity?" John asked distractedly; he sounded busy, talking over the whir of some machines at the garage. He didn't tend to be worried about those things, especially given the nature of the _other_ activities his boys could do.

Dean had already decided on an easy and also incidentally truthful answer, "I'm helping out with Sammy's fundraiser."

"All right," John said, "But If I'd need you for a hunt..."

"When did I ever let anything keep me from that?" Dean asked, "Listen, I gotta go."

"Yeah me too," John said, "You boys be safe."

" " "

Dean was a pretty quick study in a lot of things, music included. They told him he had talent, but that it was also very unharnessed.

"It's raw," Frank said, and he took on a very different aura when he was talking about music; he was starting to look impossibly taller, talking about the thing he knew and loved best. "It's a great sound, Dean, seriously. But why don't you try..."

He gave a few technical instructions that went over Dean's head; he had to remind them that he was not formally trained at all. Larry translated the technical terms (he seemed to be one of those who was more a hard-worker than a natural talent), and Dean wisely yielded to the experts. He found that the suggestions really made the music sound richer.

"I think we've really got a shot at this now," he heard Pearl say to Apple when they thought he wasn't listening. _God,_ he loved women.

"That was a good run," Larry told him begrudgingly at the end of the practice, "You're actually pretty good, you wanna learn, and damned if I don't think you're just _dying_ to win."

Brian was passing around bottles of mineral water, and Dean took a slug off his bottle before answering, "I don't like losing," he admitted. He liked winning everything from prank wars to sports to pointless contests with his younger brother (spotting out-of-state plates on the road, distance-spitting, breath-holding and the like). And then there were some things he just _had_ to win or else he or his family got hurt, like running away from or after a monster, things of that nature. But this contest was that drive and one more massive push: he was doing it because he owed Sam for taking care of him.

"But you know," Larry said as they gathered their things, "There's more to being a frontman than the singing."

"I'm not dancing," Dean told him flatly.

"No, no," Larry said emphatically, "It's... it's charisma. It's _sex_ appeal. It's charm, but also mystery. The women have to want you, and the men want to be you."

"You're teaching _the_ Dean Winchester how to be sexy?" Apple blurted out, and it was so unexpected that everyone looked at her and she blushed, "What? I go to the girl's bathroom, people talk, and I'm not deaf."

"Or blind," Pearl laughed.

"I'm just saying," Larry blushed too as he stammered, "I mean, I wouldn't know anything about that. I was just saying. I mean... what would I know about that? That Dean doesn't, that is. I mean. I'm just saying."

Now even Dean was embarrassed. "Okay... so what does everyone want from me?"

"Just remember it," Larry mumbled, "I guess. I dunno."

"And I style the band," Pearl said, "So you'd have to cooperate."

"No-ass-pants?" Dean joked.

"Only for Larry," Max piped in.

"They're better than wrestler's tights," Larry snapped.

"Pipe down, children," Brian told them cheerfully, "We go again tomorrow."

" " "

The battle of the bands was going to be held at an out-of-town club called La Pristina, which was a big-city legendary music house where a lot of currently successful acts have been discovered. Mrs. Winkler had been the teacher of some of the owners and some of the artists, and because she made them aware of the school's situation, they were given free tickets for the event to sell in school.

The volunteers sold tickets to the contest alongside chocolates, and at Dean's suggestion, gave out a free chocolate bar for every two tickets sold. Members of the music club were out in force during lunch breaks selling them, and Dean was informed that being part of _Riot Act_ pretty much meant that he had to make time to do that too.

He manned the same booth as Sam; it didn't escape the fundraising committee's notice that the brothers Winchester were excellent salesmen together. The more tickets they sold though, the quieter Dean became. It was sinking in ever dreadfully and slowly that while he was doing this only for Sam, it was going to be an effort that would be seen by a lot of people. _A lot_ of people.

"I wanna change my mind," he told his brother under his breath, the very second three delectably uniformed cheerleaders bought tickets after saying, '_We didn't know you could sing, Dean_.'

"The gig's in four days," Sam said soothingly, "If you bust out now, you're leaving these guys in the dust."

"So what?" Dean asked.

"You've committed," Sam pointed out, "That's like a promise."

"So?"

"You don't break promises," Sam said simply.

"I lie though."

"They're not the same," Sam argued, "Everything you've promised you've always done. Just think of this as a con if you're nervous. An act, you do that all the time. What's two songs – eight minutes? Don't wuss out."

"I'm not a pussy," Dean said primly.

"So what?" Sam snorted, "You're shy?"

Maybe he was sometimes, in his own way. The idea made him flush in embarrassment. "_No_," he said emphatically, "I'm just... I'm just not comfortable."

"Well you've committed," Sam said, "You can't let them down. Anyway this is useless. You know you won't back out anyway. You never have, out of anything."

" " "

At the third band practice, Pearl brought everyone's stage costumes. Dean lifted up a black pair of jeans and just stared at it. It was brand new, the color so rich it was practically liquid in his hands. The material was smooth where it wasn't intentionally torn at one knee and on one thigh. He's never worn anything so nice before.

"You said you'd cooperate," she said, fearing his stunned reaction.

"No, I like it," he said, "I've never worn anything like this."

She beamed at him and tossed him a vintage-washed white t-shirt; it was a little tighter than what he usually used, then again the ones he owned had been his father's or someone else's from Salvation Army. This shirt was new, still smelled like a fricking department store.

She gave him a dark brown leather cuff and black elastics for his wrists. She also handed him thick silver rings.

"It'll look good for when you hold the mike," she explained, "I didn't bring you any shoes. I think your boots are already bad-ass. They look nicely-used, kind of rebel-construction worker if you know what I mean."

He actually laughed at that, "Rebel-construction worker?"

"Well it works," she said, "They look like they've been through sand and stone, ash and mud... and damned if some of those stains don't look like dried blood to me. _That's_ rock and roll, baby."

They _were_ blood, but whatever.

She drew out a hat that looked like it could belong to a 20's mobster. "I wasn't so sure about this." She flopped it on top of his head, and it took him deliberate effort not to lash out at her by hunter's instinct.

"Nah," she decided after looking at him, "We want those eyes showing, I think. Larry!" she yelled for the bassist and former-frontman on the other end of the room. Larry was trying on his attire without reservation; he had on a green shirt underneath a short black vest, accented with a half-undone tie. He came over to them.

"You want Dean on the fedora to make him look edgier, or should we keep the shadows off his face?" she asked.

"He has nice eyes, get 'em out there," Larry said, matter-of-fact. The assessment was so flat that Dean felt a little objectified, "Can I give that a shot? I think I can pull it off."

She slipped it from Dean's head to Larry's and nodded in approval, "Looks good. What do you think, Dean?"

_I think it's girly to comment_, he thought, but nevertheless gave it a shot. This was about the proper execution of an act, wasn't it? The dressing-up part was all in the name of the con?

"The binding on the hat kind of," he was a little clumsy with wardrobe assessment here so sue him, "Makes the thingie on his neck pop out real nice."

"His tie," Pearl said, "You're right, they're complementary. Good call Larry."

The other band members tried on their clothes too, and the mood was giddy and light that day, in anticipation of the upcoming contest and their optimistic feelings about winning. They practiced their two songs thrice apiece wearing them, and then started taking photos of each other. Dean shied away, kept to the sidelines. But the wrestler was exactly that, and he would pull their hesitant lead singer front and center.

"Aw come on," he elbowed at Max, "Leave me alone."

"No way, Winchester," Max insisted, "You're in this now."

"I'll take the shot," Dean offered, "So you got one with just you guys."

"You _are_ one of us guys," Larry said with an easy shrug.

Dean's brows rose, but he had nothing to say to that. He was... touched, but he had nothing to say to that. _At all_. He just swiped at the camera and told them in his best John Winchester impression to shut the hell up and just stay still for a second.

" " "

The tickets were sold out, and the school was abuzz with the upcoming battle of the bands. It was thus far, the most inventive of the methods the clubs have devised to raise money: it involved competition between the schoolmates and against other schools, it involved having a viable excuse for the students to tell their parents they were going out-of-town for charity, and it involved a few notable school personalities. The rebellious new kid Dean Winchester was going to sing, former wrestler Max had brought in his jock-friends and the cheerleaders, all of Frank's relatives were coming to watch (he had what sounded like a hundred very involved aunts), Mrs. Winkler was bringing in the faculty and a few other musician friends, and so on.

Dean wanted to be cool about it but the atmosphere was festive, downright electric. The gig was for a Friday night, and during the day he kept getting high five's and wishes of luck from total strangers. Pearl had convinced the band that, in order to be comfortable in the clothes, they had to wear at least part of the wardrobe during the day. Dean was wearing the pants and the black rubber elastics on his wrists, and somehow they made his dad's hand-me-downs look 'vintage' instead of 'old.' The clothes fit perfectly, and he was secretly delighted when Pearl said that they were his to keep, win or lose.

"Daddy's contribution," she explained, "I wish he'd just pay us off, but I think I'm supposed to learn from the fucking journey or something."

Sam was a hyperactive little maniac, jumping around and saying he had a really good feeling about this. The atmosphere was infectious and Dean found himself both nervous and excited, like he was ready to burst from all the good will around him. He felt so ready to rule the world that winning ten grand should just be a breeze.

The day was turning out well, and went quickly and smoothly. Mrs. Winkler ended class a few minutes early and rounded up the bands to ride in a bus the school rented to bring them to La Pristina.

Dean hadn't stepped out of the school for a second before he saw the gleaming, black length of his father's car parked just behind the school bus.

" " "

Dean excused himself from Larry whom he was walking with, and then jogged over to his father. John was on the driver's seat, looking shadowed and grim.

_A hunt_, he realized right away, _Something bad's happening_.

"Dad?"

John looked at him, eyes glinting, and told him to "Get in."

His breath caught in his throat. This couldn't be happening, not now. How could life be so cruel?

"What's going on?" Dean asked, his heart pounding. He needed time to think. He needed to find a way to get out of this and live up to his commitments. He needed just eight damn minutes to get on a stage and--

"Get in," John growled, and Dean immediately slid into the passenger seat. But he kept the passenger door open and one leg on the curb. From the windshield, he could see the school bus boarding, and Mrs. Winkler standing with Larry and glancing in their direction.

"What's going on?" Dean asked, quietly.

John kept silent, and then nodded in the direction of the school. Sam had seen them right away too, and ran to the car.

"What's going on?" he asked, not knowing that he was mirroring Dean's quiet tone, the one edged with a little bit of fear and dread. He stood by Dean's open door and leaned down to look at his father.

"Get in," John ordered.

"Where are we going?" Sam countered, and he planted his feet apart, probably subconsciously, in preparation to hold his ground.

"Sam," John said, "I don't have the goddamn time for this."

"We're going on a hunt aren't we?" Sam breathed, looking from Dean to his father.

"Right now," John replied tightly, "A woman... she burned... up in the ceiling, last night."

Dean caught his breath, "Where?"

"About two hours from here," John said, "We gotta go _now_, we might still get some readings on this."

The brothers looked at each other, stricken.

"Sam!" John exclaimed, making both Sam and Dean jump, "Get in the damn car and close the door."

Sam stared at Dean for a long, breathless moment, wishing he'd speak.

"M-m-maybe later?" Dean stammered, uncharacteristically hesitant. His father tended to become frighteningly hungry in pursuit of a case that had traces of their mother, and he knew that asking would be tantamount to suicide.

"What?!" John asked, disbelieving his ears, "Jesus, Dean, don't you understand what's going on here? This could be it, the thing that killed your mother. Sam! Close that goddamn door and get inside, we are not discussing this."

Sam stared at Dean, willing him to say more.

Dean felt his brother's eyes boring into him.

"Dad," Sam said tentatively, weighing his words, "We told you we couldn't go anywhere tonight."

"Is anything I'm saying getting through to either of you?!" John yelled.

"Dad keep it down," Dean urged him quietly, "Please, damn it."

"This is it," John's eyes were watering with impotent frustration, like he wanted to shake the both of his sons to half their lives from their failure to comprehend what was so obvious to him, "What we've been fighting for years. What we've been shitting ourselves looking for. What are you talking about that you're busy? You're fucking busy?"

Dean kept wincing at the curses, and for the first time Sam felt his brother's inalienable vulnerability.

"There's a fundraiser," Dean began.

"Jesus Christ!" John cut him off, "Fucking seriosuly?"

"Listen to him for a damn second!" Sam yelled at his father, planting his backpack on the ground.

"Pick that damn thing up and--"

"No!" Sam roared, "We've been through something like this before; by the time the woman burns, there's always nothing left for us to find. _Always_. Now we asked you for one night, just one night!" he took a deep breath and opened his mouth to yell some more, except Dean grabbed him by the arm.

"Keep it the hell down," Dean hissed at him, before turning to their father, "The both of you!"

"Then open _your_ mouth!" Sam snapped at his brother, "Have some guts for god's sake."

"Sam," John growled, "You get in this damn car now, boy."

"Or what?" Sam mocked, "You'll drag me in? I am telling you right now, dad. You'd have to beat me up to get me in there."

"Don't tempt me!" John snapped, turning to Dean, "Tell your brother to close that door and get his ass in the car right now!"

Dean was blinking nervously, unsure of what to do with this situation. He's been in between his father and his brother before; they've all been between the others before at one point or another, but never like this. They've fought and thrown punches and argued, sure, but never like this, never for something so fundamentally contrasting.

"Dad," Dean said in a carefully controlled tone, "I just need this one night. I'm singing- " it sounded petty and lame when his father's eyes widened in indignation, but he spurred on, "- for a band to raise money to save a bunch of clubs in school. It's for funding teacher's overtime pays, classroom and lab maintenance, new instruments, tournament registrations, team uniforms and bus rides and things like that. The pot's at ten grand. We've been practicing for days, I can't let them down, they don't have anyone else."

"It's really important," Sam added, calming down a little now that his older brother had spoken up, "Practically the whole school is going. The band won't have anyone else. A lot of people are counting on Dean to be there, to do this."

John's chest was heaving. It couldn't have weighed lightly on him, asking his sons to break their commitments. But Dean watched his face and knew that if there was anything that made his father irrational, it was anything that had anything to do with their mother's killer.

"I'm sorry," he said, and it sounded like it was getting ripped right from his stomach; he was truly apologetic of the situation, but found it hard to be sorry about his desire to kill his wife's murderer.

Dean closed his eyes in defeat.

Sam wasn't done fighting.

"No you're not," Sam seethed, "You're not sorry, you never are."

"I can't apologize for what we do when we help people who need us, Sam," John told him tightly, "We help the people who need us or they die."

"People can need us for more than just keeping them alive," Sam said, pointing in the direction of the now-filled bus. Everyone was inside, except for Mrs. Winkler and Larry who were by now staring their way. "And you know what else? _We_ can be good for more than just keeping people alive. We can make them happy, we can make lives better, make lives worthwhile."

"Not if they're dead," John said flatly, "Get in the car."

"You're killing us," Sam told his father with venom, "Mom wouldn't want this for us! Mom would hate this for us!"

Dean saw the flare in his father's eyes. They looked like punches about to be thrown. He gripped his father's arm desperately, as John angled to unlock his door and jump the hell out to drag Sam inside.

"Dad no," Dean pleaded, "And for god's sake, Sam, shut up."

"No!" Sam said, "Tell me I'm not right, Dean. Tell me this isn't a big deal and I'll believe you. Tell me this doesn't mean anything to you. Tell me to get in the car and I will."

"You want to risk people dying because you want to _sing_?" John scoffed.

"It's not just about that--" Dean argued.

"Don't make him do this, dad," Sam implored John, "Just let this go, please. Don't make him do this."

Dean looked from his father to his brother, back again, then out the windshield. Mrs. Winkler looked like she was about to walk over, and this would be an even bigger mess than it already was, if she started to mistake dissent for abuse. This had to stop now, and neither his father or his brother were in the mood to desist. His father was scenting his mother's killer, and there was no stopping him from getting there. His brother was beginning to find his way to that long-sought-for exit, and he wasn't going to be taken any steps back the way he came in. This was going to have to be up to him.

"Get in the car, Sam," he said, so softly that he didn't recognize his own voice.

"What?!"

"Please just get in the car," Dean repeated. Picking people dying over people becoming disappointed was theoretically no-contest, right? The hunt had to be done and _Riot Act_ was gonna have to live to be disappointed, but at least they were alive.

Dean pushed away from Sam and rose to his feet. He walked toward Mrs. Winkler and Larry.

" " "

Numbly, Sam did as he was instructed by his older brother. The two Winchesters in the Impala stared as Dean walked toward his teacher.

"You can still stop this, dad," Sam begged, "Don't make him do this. It shouldn't be up to us, who gets to die and who just gets to be unhappy. He shouldn't have to do this, picking one over the other. He's just a kid. You don't know what it'll cost him, you really don't. He didn't know how good he was at this until now. He didn't know he could make people happy. He didn't know he could have friends like that. They'll hate him if he leaves, dad. He'll hate himself. _Please_. I'll go with you and do anything you want. I'll shut up for a year, won't complain about anything. Just let him stay. Don't make him do this."

"He'll do this 'cos he has to," John said, "He'll choose the right thing because he can take it. He's tough, he can take all the crap that will be thrown at him."

"Just because he could doesn't mean he has to," Sam said, tears making his voice shake, "You can still stop this, dad. You can still stop this."

" " "

"I'm not going," he managed to get out of an impossibly tight throat. Damned if he wasn't close to crying right now.

"Is that your dad?" Mrs. Winkler asked him gently, "Do you want me to talk to him?"

"No!" Dean snapped, "No, don't, it's not him." He didn't want to vilify his father out of loyalty, and out of the profound fear of consequences from Family Services.

"Family emergency," he lied, "I can't do this right now."

"Dean," Mrs. Winkler said, looking like she knew he was pulling lies out of his ass, "Dean, let me talk to him."

"Leave me the hell alone," Dean retorted, wanting to just leave because he wasn't going to fucking cry like a girl about this in front of everybody, "I don't wanna do this anyway, I never did."

"Don't be a jerk, man," Larry said, "What are we supposed to do now?"

"You throat seems better, I'm sure you'll make it work," Dean said, pretending to be flippant, "I'm out. Tell Pearl she gets her duds back dry-cleaned on Monday. Or I can just buy 'em from her."

"Dean, come on," Larry urged him, "What's going on, man?"

"I gotta go," Dean said, turning away from them, "I didn't wanna do this anyway."

Larry grabbed him by the shoulder to stop him, and Dean turned to face him angrily, jerking free of the other student's hold.

"Don't touch me!" Dean growled at him.

"You're a fucking waste, you know that?" Larry seethed at him, "I'd kill to have what you have and you're just pissing it all away."

"Larry--" Mrs. Winkler tried to stop him, her maturity alerting her to Dean's distress and that there were some other issues afoot. But Larry was young and profoundly disappointed, and Dean was not above vilifying himself if it meant getting out of there right away.

"You're a goddamn waste," Larry spat out, "Of talent, of time, and of all the hopes people put on you!"

_I'm a hero_, Dean found himself wanting to say. But damned if he didn't feel like the bad guy right now. He didn't even want to look in the direction of the bus, where undoubtedly people were deciding he was a class-a douchebag.

_Nevermind_, he thought, _I do what we do or people die_.

_I'm a hero, I swear..._

_... Someone believe me_.

He turned his back on all of them. He didn't need any of them to know the truth, did he? He didn't need any of them to like him or pin their hopes on him. He didn't need any of them. He was almost out of here anyway. And no one would remember him, right?

At this point, he certainly hoped so.

" " "

"Are you mad at me?" Dean asked Sam, when the Winchesters returned two nights later, empty-handed from their hunt for Mary Winchester's killer. He and his brother were lying in bed, about to go to sleep.

"No," Sam sighed after an honest moment of thought. He thought that he could be, but he was wrong. He had been disappointed in his brother's choice, but then again, having to make that choice in the first place guaranteed that Dean was far more miserable than he was.

"Everyone will be," Dean said quietly.

Sam didn't bother to argue this; they both knew it to be true.

"That's all right," Dean added, "I'm almost outta here anyway, I don't care."

Sam didn't bother to argue this, even if they both knew it to be false.

" " "

Dean redefined the meaning of a high school outcast when he returned on Monday. It might have been worth the trouble if he and his family had found something that would lead them to their mom's killer, but the three of them drove back feeling weary and disappointed to be so profoundly empty-handed.

The La Pristina gig of _Riot Act_ pushed through, but they wouldn't have had a prayer even with Larry in top form, which was far from the case. The desertion of Dean had also shaken the spirits of the group in general, and a lot of miscellaneous foul-ups just happened that ended with none of the school's bands winning the contest. Everyone went home in varying stages of annoyance and curiosity about the absence of the Winchesters, but whatever the reason for the absence, there was no mistaking that there was a convenient scapegoat for their collective defeat, and Dean Winchester – a relatively new kid with no fixed clique – was an easy target.

His former band mates hated his guts, the geek posse losing their clubs were disappointed in him, the cool kids wanted to pick on a fresh face... it was just so easy sometimes, to piss everyone off.

Dean knew this would happen the moment he turned away from the bus that would have taken him to the stage. He knew it full-well. What he didn't know was that if the ache could be soothed by success in avenging his mother. Either way, the disappointment was profound and days later, he found himself sitting by his lonesome during lunchtime until his younger brother sat down across from him.

"I wouldn't sit there if I were you," Dean told him wryly, "Apparently, I'm contagious."

Sam ignored him and munched at his food, seemingly oblivious to the people staring at them or throwing them glares.

"Seriously Sammy," Dean growled, "They might hate you too. I mean, I don't care about me but I don't want them to--"

"I don't care either," Sam shrugged, looking at Dean meaningfully, "I just wanna eat with you."

"No," Dean muttered, standing up and leaving him behind, "Don't you follow me, Sam."

**To be concluded** in an upcoming Epilogue and Author's Afterword, which will contain explanations of the story, quick versions of alternate endings, and a preview chapter of a new project of mine called _With Blood..._

Thanks for reading, c&c's as welcome as always, and 'til the next post!


	6. Epilogue, Afterword, and Preview

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **Heroes for Ghosts**

Summary:It's a time of change. While Sam had always looked up to Dean as a brother, stand-in father & hunter, Dean has to step up when the school is in financial trouble and Sam needs a different kind of hero: a good student? Dean is just a little out of his element. Set post-_After School Special_.

**Hi guys**,

First off, thanks for all who read, alerted, favorited and especially all who reviewed the previous chapters of _Heroes for Ghosts_. The responses were really encouraging and thought-provoking, and thank you for taking the time to share your insights and letting me know how I was doing in terms of characterizations and plot and other writing elements. This fic is officially completed, and I think it's a boat-load of words for a little over a week, haha, but that's all thanks to the fuel your reviews have provided. I hope the quality didn't suffer, and I hope that overall you found _Heroes for Ghosts_ worthy of your time.

As always, c&c's are welcome, and below you will find the conclusion to the story, the afterword which talks about some elements of the fic that might interest you, and lastly, a preview of the new fic that I'm working on called _With Blood_ :) Anyway, without further ado:

" " "

**Heroes for Ghosts**

" " "

**Epilogue**

_1997_

" " "

The days flew by.

The clubs were on their last legs, and Sam focused his efforts on those because hopeless as things seemed, he felt he had a better chance of fixing them as opposed to mending his troubled older brother.

Dean had become a lot quieter, a lot more serious about things. He took to the hunt like a starving man hanging on to the last piece of bread he had. He immersed himself, wanting to be better and better, taking larger risks, pushing himself to the very edge.

Dean sank into the life completely and devotedly. He cruised by school with slim to no effort, making enough to pass and then putting all the rest of his time on hunting. He couldn't wait to leave high school and all its drama and all its implications to the rest of his life behind. He was done with this page, wanted to flip over and get to the next one.

Sam and John noted it, but didn't know what to do about it. When Dean borrowed the car saying he had a hot date, Sam knew that John was so relieved to have some semblance of Dean back that he just gave in. He would be gone in the early evening and return past midnight. When he asked again a day later, John allowed the same thing. He did it twice more, before coming home one night with a bleeding cut over his eye.

"Dean, what the hell?" Sam asked, when he saw his brother walk into their house in that sorry state.

"Go back to sleep, Sammy," he said before drifting to the bathroom and closing the door on Sam's face.

Sam knew what the closed door meant, just as he knew that his imploring or his demands would only serve to keep it shut. The only man who could open that was their father. He and Dean had always been close but sometimes, closeness was not the answer. Dean needed a forced re-wiring which Sam did not have the mandate to do especially since his problem wasn't with Sam anyway.

He felt someone stand behind him, and he glanced at his thoughtful-looking father. The disappointment of the hunt for their mother's killer, coupled by Dean's melancholy and Sam's quiet antagonism were resting heavily in his eyes. Though Sam understood full-well that his father made a lot of mistakes, that single look reminded him that this life was not a walk in the park for anybody, and his heart twinged in sympathy for the first time since their father all but forcibly yanked them from school the day of the contest.

"Kids are giving him a hard time in school," Sam said quietly. He was human enough to wish to impart some guilt to his father, but mostly he said it because he needed someone to help Dean where he could not, "He says he doesn't care, but he's just a teenager, dad. How couldn't he?"

John nodded in understanding. He stared at Sam for a long moment. "Is he pissed at me?"

"He never is," Sam replied, adding honestly, "God knows why."

"Fair enough," John murmured, "And you?"

"What about me?"

"Are we over this?"

Sam wondered at what he meant. Over like, it's never gonna happen again? Sam doubted it. Over like, he's learned his lesson and will just accept things as they come? His father must be dreaming. The only way this issue was over is that this was a closed issue for Sam: he now knew what he wanted, and what it could cost to go after them. He'd be sticking to fighting tooth and nail for that from now on.

"I don't know," Sam admitted.

John nodded at him shortly, though neither of them knew what the other really meant. Sam suspected that if they did, it would have been a longer conversation or worse, an argument. Nevertheless, John had other concerns for the moment. He rapped at the bathroom door smartly, and then just let himself in. Sam stayed outside and kept himself out of sight, but lingered nearby to hear whatever would transpire between Dean and their father.

Dean was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, the suture kit sitting on top of the sink. He stared at his reflection, before letting his gaze settle on John.

Wordlessly, John laid his hands on Dean's shoulders, forcing him to sit on top of the closed lid of the toilet bowl. Dean watched him carefully as his father worked to stitch him back together.

"I really am sorry," John said.

"About what?" Dean murmured.

"You know."

Dean didn't bother to deny it, "I won't let you apologize for wanting to find whoever hurt mom, dad. There's no apologizing for that. It's only right."

John just grimaced, "I'm sorry for the situation."

Dean just frowned, as his father kept working, "So Sam tells me kids in school have been giving you a hard time. Is this from one of 'em?"

"No," Dean replied darkly, "I pissed off someone else this time. I just walked into the wrong bar, I guess. Damn Sam for opening his mouth though. You two haven't been talking much for days and the fricking snitch talks about _this_. Unbelievable."

The short list of bad words directly cursing Sam assured the youngest Winchester that his brother knew he was listening in.

"He's worried about you," John said, "So am I."

"It'll all be over soon," Dean said, "When I graduate, I won't be seeing any of these people ever again, so it doesn't matter."

"It does," John argued.

"_Now _you say so?" Dean asked, laughing humorlessly.

"Not as much as the hunt," John admitted, "And I would have done the exact same thing I did, asking you to come with me instead of letting you go. But that doesn't mean I don't care that what happens out there hurts you."

"I'm fine," Dean insisted, "I can look after myself. And tell _Sam_ the same thing."

" " "

Dean was admittedly miserable about the school situation. Who wouldn't? He's supposed to be over all of this petty drama, but he was only seventeen for crying out loud, and the pathetic, juvenile hate-you post-it's people kept slipping into his locker was weirdly hurtful (the geeks didn't go for more outright vandalism of property like writing on it; they were apparently afraid of getting caught). Mrs. Winkler had also stopped talking to him after class and even avoided looking at him. _Riot Act_ had recently written a song about their disappointment, which they practiced during lunchtime. It was so transparently about him that they could have entitled it _Dean Winchester is an Asshole_ instead of the vaguer _Curtain Call_.

He found solace in the hunt; reading up whatever he could find during the breaks. But when his father started noting the change in him and started easing up on the job, he started feeling antsy, needed to do something else.

He couldn't sleep at night, and figured he might as well use the insomnia and the unhappiness by hustling at pool. The goal was to make ten thousand dollars that he could give to the fundraiser, the ten thousand they might have had if he had just stuck by _Riot Act_ as he promised he would.

He made good money in very good time: he'd win over a thousand dollars each time he went out. Sometimes, he indulged in the daydream of personally handing the money to the fundraising committee, firmly establishing Dean Winchester as a hero. But he knew that it was just a ridiculous, petty fantasy; doing it would just attract more trouble because a kid wasn't supposed to be hustling like that. He can just do this for his own peace of mind, pay off what he owed everybody.

Every night he won money, he'd drive by the corner of Mrs. Winkler's house, get off and drop the dough in her mailbox with a note of where it was supposed to go. He did it four times, eventually earning a total of a little over seven thousand dollars for the fundraiser. He really wouldn't have stopped at seven since he owed ten, except a sore loser got off a lucky, drunken shot and hit Dean on the head. He wasn't on top form the last time he dropped off the money, wasn't as cautious as usual. The teacher, on the other hand, was waiting for him, eager to find out who their mystery donor was.

He stopped his car and dropped off the money, just as he heard the teacher call his name as she ran from her front door. He turned away and jogged back to his car, driving away.

" " "

Mrs. Winkler asked him to stay back from class the next day. Setting his jaws in irritation, he nevertheless did as she asked. She waited for the room to empty out, before turning to him worriedly.

"You all right?" she asked, nodding at the bruised and cut eye.

"I'm always all right," Dean shrugged.

"Some of the money had blood in it," she said boldly, gaging his reaction.

"Well I'm sorry about that," he said, not missing a beat, "I was under the impression that beggars couldn't be choosers, but I guess I was wrong."

"Dean," she said gently, "Where did the money come from?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I installed a nanny cam outside my door after the first two drops," she told him.

"You're bluffing," he said, quite certain because he was good at reading tells.

She didn't bother to deny it. "Where did the money come from?"

"Let's put it this way," he said, "Heard of any robberies anywhere? Any mugging? Drug busts? Police reports? That money's clean, won fair and square."

"We can't take it," she told him, "Not like this."

"It's not mine," Dean said easily, "It's what I owe."

"You don't owe anybody anything," she insisted, "I admit I was... disappointed with the outcome of things, but I didn't want you making up for what happened like this. And besides, I have a feeling it wasn't your fault, missing the contest when you did."

"It's not," Dean shrugged, "But I'm okay with that. It doesn't have to be your fault for you to be the one to have to pay for stuff. That's how it works in life. Sometimes you just gotta pay."

"No," she insisted, "That's not what life is about, Dean. It doesn't work that way. You pay for your sins, and you get rewarded for your contributions."

He just snickered at that. "And houses are made of candy and chocolate and we can just take a bite anytime we're hungry."

She sighed, looking at him with sadness and that thing he hated the most – _pity_. He felt crippling annoyance, anger, frustration... they all made his heart thunder in his ears and made him want to cry and pull all his hair out.

"Don't look at me like that," he told her darkly, "Don't you dare. I just wanna be left alone. Don't bring this up with anyone, I'll just deny it all and anyway no one would believe you. Just use the money for what it's supposed to be used and leave me alone."

"Dean, I can't."

"You don't have a choice," he snapped, before gaining more control, "I just wanna finish school and leave all this behind me. Close the damn book, everything finished, just one more face that went by."

"_I_ won't forget you," she said, and her eyes were shining too, with many things. There was the pity she couldn't get rid of, the desire to reach out to him and fix him that all women (those who want to get him laid and those who want to mother him) shared, the curiosity to uncover his story, the helplessness of not being able to, admiration, and even just simple endearment.

He stared at her for a long moment, savoring that look.

_I_ am a _hero_, he realized by the look in her eyes. He kept the memory somewhere in his heart, buried deep. He'd draw that out, when the days go dark.

"I uh..." he hesitated, "I wanna just be left alone. But... but I'm glad too, that you know all about where the money's from. I admit I wanted someone to, and I'm happy it's you. You really tried with me, Mrs. Winkler. I appreciate that. I didn't want you to think you wasted your time."

"You're a good kid, Dean," she told him quietly, "You're a real good kid."

"I know," he smirked at her, and turned to the door when his younger brother peered in, "Heya Sam."

"Hi Mrs. Winkler," Sam said shyly before looking at Dean, "You ready to go?"

" " "

The brothers walked home as they always did, side by side.

"So I see Mrs. Winkler is talking to you again," Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean replied distractedly.

"I heard what you were talking about," Sam admitted, "I should have guessed you were up to something."

Dean just shrugged, "I just got a little over seven grand. It's not ten, but--"

"But nothing," Sam cut him off, "That's more than enough, Dean. _More_ than enough. I know you weren't really into all this fundraising crap, so that was really good of you."

"I owed people," Dean said simply, "I'm paid up more or less, so I'm good now."

"You never owed anybody anything," Sam pointed out, "Except maybe yourself. I wanted you to do it, Dean. You should have seen it, how good you were. I kept saying so but you never believed it, coming from me. Up on a stage in front of people who weren't me, with people applauding and stuff, you'd have known for sure."

"Well it's all done with now," Dean shrugged, "No big deal."

It was low-hanging fruit, how easy it was to dispute that. But Sam let Dean get away with that one.

"Don't you ever..." Sam hesitated, "Don't you ever wish that people knew what we were doing? Or that we were doing something that people admired?"

"No," Dean lied, "I don't care about what these bastards think, I'm almost gone from here anyway. I really can't wait to graduate, Sammy, I can't wait to just go on with my life. And I know you wanna stay but I'm telling you, I can't wait to get outta this town."

"You used to like it here."

Dean just shrugged.

"I wouldn't mind anymore," Sam said thoughtfully, "If we left, I mean."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, "Why's that?"

"Well you won't be going to school with me anymore," Sam said, "Dad's getting antsy, and I kind of feel like... like this place is too small, you know? That... that there's more out there for me and if I don't bust out, I'm just gonna explode."

"You are a weird one," Dean commented, without venom, "What do you mean too small?"

"I wanna study somewhere we don't have to bust our asses selling chocolate bars just to keep a classroom and a teacher," Sam said, "I wanna go somewhere where the jocks aren't just the ones who are important, where sports isn't the only way to get ahead. A larger town, a city where they have AP classes, college councilors and SAT reviews, things like that."

"You're thinking of going to college?" Dean asked, skeptically.

"Haven't you ever thought of college?" Sam asked.

"Sometimes," Dean admitted, "But you can't hunt while you're in college."

A weighty silence followed, and realization hit Dean like a pound of bricks.

"You can't _not_ hunt, Sammy," Dean said, at a loss as to even imagining how that was possible, "I mean... how... with dad... and the... you just can't _not_ hunt!"

"Maybe I can," Sam retorted, "Maybe I can't. But I want to be in a place where I have a shot. I deserve a shot. _You_ deserve a shot."

"It's too late for me," Dean argued, "This is my life."

"You're miserable!" Sam pointed out.

"I'm miserable 'cos of school," Dean contested, "Not hunting. Once that one's out I'll be perfect."

"School's miserable because of hunting," Sam countered, "You were fine, you were _great_! You had talent, students liked you, teachers liked you – I don't know why-, you were even doing well in your subjects. It's hunting that's making everything all wrong."

"It's hunting that we _have_ to do," Dean said, "We have to do it or people die. No one said life was supposed to be easy."

"_I _feel like I'm dying," Sam said, "Why do we have to give up our lives? _We_ need saving, Dean, ever thought about that? _We_ need saving!"

"Sam," Dean hesitated, at a loss for words, "I can't win this argument with you. Hunting feels right to me. It's not easy but it's mine to do, mine to bear. I know you feel different, god, I understand that now more than ever. And you do deserve a shot at what you want. But none of that normal shit is real and sooner or later that'll hit you. You have to be more careful about what you expect from life, or else you're just going to be really disappointed."

"That's not new to me," Sam said, "Anyway this argument is moot. We're leaving when you graduate anyway, and for a little bit, we'll all have what we want: you get to leave school, dad can keep on going with the wanderlusting and as for me... things are changing, and I might as well get a clean slate."

"I guess," Dean conceded, more than a little nervously. They'd all have what they want – but only _for a little bit..._

... because_ things are changing_.

**The End.**

August 2, 2009

" " "

**Afterword**

CONTENTS

I. The Story

II. How _Heroes for Ghosts_ Fits In With the Series

III. The Myth of a Light Fic

IV. The Chracaters

A. Sam

B. Dean

C. John

V. Massive Thanks and Replies

VI. New Project Preview: _With Blood_

" " "

**I. The Story**

The title of course is a particularly catchy line from the Pink Floyd song _Wish You Were Here_. I'm not at all certain about what the song is supposed to mean, but from how I interpreted it, it's describing a choice and the perspective it was based on. _Heroes for Ghosts_ is my version of how the two Winchester brothers started to look at the world differently, with each one questioning the other's valuation of life.

To Sam, life is hard enough without the hunt. To Dean, life is just a hindrance to the hunt. I imagined the lyrics of the song as things they could ask each other:

_So you think you can tell heaven from hell?_

_Blue skies from pain?_

_Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?_

_A smile from a veil?_

_Do you think you can tell?_

_Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?_

_Hot ashes for trees?_

_Hot air for a cool breeze?_

_Cold comfort for change?_

_And did you exchange a walk-on part in a war for a lead role in a cage?_

Who sees the world accurately? Do they understand the things they are giving up for the things they are pursuing? Frankly speaking, I find Sam's pursuit of a normal life in series-verse as 'exchanging a walk-on part in a war for a lead role in a cage,' but then again... Dean and John's detachment from the world was also unhealthy.

**II. How **_**HfG**_** Fits in With the Series**

_Heroes for Ghosts_ is aimed at highlighting the point where the boys' paths started to diverge, highlighting the fundamental difference of how they looked at life. In season 3, Sam told Dean that when he was a kid, he always wanted to be like him. When did that change? When did he decide he wanted a different path, and realized that he had to burn through it himself?

The catalyst was the events of _After School Special_, which this fic tags to. When I first saw that episode, I was just simply thrilled that the creators of the show took us there; it was like a spoil, being taken to the world of the teen!chesters. But when I saw it again, I understood that it wasn't just in deference to fandom demand, there were actual turning points in that episode. It was Sam turning from sullen and resigned to the realization that escape is possible. It was Dean realizing his life wasn't all that ideal, but that he was stuck and couldn't let anyone else in.

These realizations were made in _Heroes for Ghosts_ in two sister scenes on Chapters 1 and 3. In both scenes, the brothers were having a late night conversation about why Sam was so snipey with their father. One chapter was from Sam's perspective and the other is from Dean's, but they both realize how different they are both becoming.

Another sister-scene parallelism would be John talking to each of the boys in the waiting room of the hospital in Chapters 2 and 4. In both scenes, he tries to convince them with the same argument relating to the importance of the hunt; Dean buys it, Sam doesn't. With everything held constant, the parallelism highlights the difference between the boys.

**III. The Myth of a Light Fic**

The fic started out to be a happy one, if you can believe it. I deluded myself that I could write a short, junk-foody fic (light and self-indulgent, haha)... and then it just started to morph into something else. Initially, _Heroes for Ghosts_ was just about Dean joining a band to raise funds for Sam's Latin club. I'm sure you can compare the lightness of the summary to the heaviness of the eventual content. It was supposed to be a guilty pleasure, especially because a lot of Jensen Ackles' fans love hearing him sing. I re-watched _After School Special_ for a scene reference, however, and then_ Heroes for Ghosts _gradually turned more wistful, and then turned honestly quite painful to write. I especially despised writing Chapter 5, but as will be explained below, when the idea hit I found it unfaithful to throw it away.

**IV. The Characters**

As always, below is an explanation of the character nuances, and some questionable character traits defended:

**A. Sam **

I am a Dean-girl through and through, but I always say that Sam is a very compelling character to write, and I think it's because his journey is less straightforward than Dean's. He's never walked on the straight and narrow: when they were younger he was fighting against his father to be normal. When he tried normal he was wrenched back to the hunt. And then he's always dancing between good and evil. It's a character that's always on the fence; he always wants to be somewhere else, doing something else. It's so interesting for me to write about someone who has so much fire in the belly, so much hunger and drive. Sam is an interesting character because he is a mover, a shaper of events.

A huge part of his journey in canon is the road to Stanford. In _After School Special_, we see a sullen teenager who's tired of their lifestyle and just trudges forward. Suddenly he has an idea that escape is possible, and the seed is planted. _Heroes for Ghosts_ is that little seed growing a little bit more: he's starting to question and say no to their father, is becoming angry instead of just unhappy. This is my version of the very first time Sam realized he could be combative and a more active contributor to what happens in his life. These realizations I think, are best exemplified in his elation over saying 'No' to his dad in Chapter 4, and in Chapter 1 when he realizes that he's more afraid of being stuck in his life forever than angering his father.

Another symbolism of the Sam in _Heroes for Ghosts_ as the growing seed version that comes between the Sam of _After School Special _and the Stanford Sam of the _Pilot_ would be the migraines that he was getting at puberty. That scene was relevant in that it was a part of Sam's adolescent process, and also constructively because it has a sister/parallel scene when Dean gets sick and John employs the same reasoning but the brothers react differently to him. This is a further illustration of the distance beginning to grow between them.

This explanation has been long but the short-version is this: _Heroes for Ghosts_ is the bridge between the Sam of _After School Special_ and the Sam of the _Pilot_.

**B. Dean**

The main thesis for the characterization of Dean in this story is to illustrate how his hunter's life maximized his distance from normal life; how it isolated him, detached him from it definitively. I wanted to show how different he felt from everyone else, how he dabbles with stepping back in, and then how 'normal' is irreconcilable with the hunt in the end.

This was such a painful piece to write. It started out as self-indulgent junkfood as I mentioned above, but I was so scared that it would turn cheesy and be just a fic that unthinkingly puts Dean on a paradoxically uncharacteristic pedestal, that I went searching for a deeper meaning and ended up depressing myself, haha. I just wanted to write a story where he was no longer an unsung hero, that people looked up to him because they either knew what he really did, or admired him for a different reason. The singing-for-a-cause would have been that reason, except I also knew that he would have to abandon it, so I started thinking about how.

The first version of _Heroes for Ghosts_ was supposed to end with Dean choosing to sing instead of going on the hunt, and as a result, people die. He accepts the adulation from his classmates, but carries the guilt of those deaths and therefore decides to never choose anything above the hunt ever again. The second version was supposed to end with Dean having gone to the hunt, and then returned to the show on-time to win. I scrapped this, because unfortunately, life isn't Disneyland. The third version had Dean choosing to sing instead of hunting, but his father gets hurt when the hunt pushes through without him and in guilt, he always followed his dad's orders after that. I was going for that third version until the fourth version hit me, which is as you see it in the final, posted _Heroes for Ghosts_. It hurt me the most, haha... I initially wanted Dean to be adored by his classmates, and then I just reversed it completely. I had a hard time separating what I wanted to see and what felt was more characteristic, but in the end I think I made the right choice. The clincher as to why I picked this particular ending? Dean said he's _Batman_, haha, and in the best-scripted _Batman _movie of all time, which was _The Dark Knight_, they said that Batman can be looked upon as a villain and can be hunted down was because he's what Gotham needed, and because he was tough enough to take it. I think that's the kind of hero Dean is, and this keeps with the rest of the series with the cops hunting them down. He can make the tough and unpopular choices, because they needed to be made. He can take the consequences because he's tough.

Still... I felt it was human for him to want someone to know he wasn't a bad guy. In _After School Special_, I just itched for Dean to tell everyone why he was a hero, but he didn't. _Heroes for Ghosts_ is kind of like that; I want the readers to feel that same frustration of wanting people to know how great he is, except he couldn't do that if he wanted to keep doing his job, and that was what really made him heroic, the _unsung_ part. But of course, I couldn't resist letting Mrs. Winkler know a little bit of what kind of a hero he was at the end. I hope the characterization was just and fair.

**C. John**

This fic intentionally did not give out John's perspective of the world because I wanted to convey the feeling of uncertainty about him that his sons might have had. However, I hope I left some telling clues to his character. He loves his boys but he is so handicapped in trying to execute it, I think. I didn't want to vilify him, but I wanted to make him very human; flawed, fallible, finite, and that all these are inseparable to the things that make him great. The part that encapsulates his characterization in _Heroes for Ghosts_ is in Chapter 4:

"_I can't just be father or hunter at one time and then different in the next, Sam. When you mother died... I've had to be both, all the time. I can't be a good father if I'm not a hunter, because that's how I can protect you from what's out there, and it's how I teach you to do the right thing. You can't have your old man in bits and pieces, picked over._"

Life's been unkind to him, and he's doing the best he could. For him, the best way to be a father is also being a hunter, because (1) he protects his sons that way; and (2) it's teaching them to do what is right by protecting others. He doesn't apologize for himself, because he honestly doesn't believe that he's doing anything wrong. But he does hesitate sometimes (in the fic, Sam catches that loneliness in him several times, and Dean certainly carries a lot of his load), and he does feel sorry for his boys and the situation they are in. He is unavoidably both hunter and father for all its good (as described above) but also for all its ills: putting his sons in danger and depriving them of other chances in life.

**V. Massive Thanks to Reviewers**

Shout out to all who took the time to read the fic, and to all who favorite-d and alert-ed it. I am especially grateful to my reviewers:

adder574, Ani-maniac494, annie200, apieceofcake, badaiwind, deangirl1, Dianne, DrifterFanatic92, Foreverwolf, JackFan2, JustinRockMyBody, Justme, Karialena, Kelcor, kelhome, Marlowe97, masondixon, moira4eku, Nong Pradu, Ophium, PhoenixDragonDreamer, Rhesa, Sophia2007, Star Mage1, staceycj, teenage inuyasha, Von, and VooDoo Doll13.

If I missed anyone, please let me know; everyone who takes such precious time out to share what they think deserves a shout out and lots of love :) I also hope that I answered your queries and comments with the author's notes above, and with the PM's I've sent you individually. If you have other concerns, don't hesitate to get in touch with me :) I always love hearing what you think :)

**VI. New Project Preview: With Blood**

It might be awhile before this is posted. I'm about two really long chapters into this, but I'm not sure if I want to post this one before another fic which I previewed awhile ago called _Open, Shut_. Anyway, the unedited, condensed version of Chapter 1 of _With Blood_, which may or may not be continued, is posted below:

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **With Blood**

Summary:Bobby Singer was just a friend to a widower, not minding the occasional babysitting. But his devotion for the Winchester family truly began when he was struck by a terminal illness and saved only by a sacrifice from Dean. Pre-Series.

" " "

**With Blood**

**Preview**

" " "

_2002_

" " "

The arrogant rumbling of that goddamn car was unmistakable.

The Impala ate up ground all lordly and gleaming black, and that self-aware, unconscionable purr was her soundtrack. She was a gorgeous piece of work, that beauty, and it was just _a little_ too bad that her arrival inextricably heralded the arrival of stray cats into the Singer Salvage Yard.

Bobby sighed, part in fondness and part in resignation.

_Here come the Winchesters_... all nine lives of each of the three of them, snarling and licking their wounds.

He looked at his useless lump of black dog lying on its stomach in front of his television, looking unworried and disinterested by the approach.

"You a guard dog or what?" Bobby asked him.

Rumsfeld glanced up at him but didn't otherwise move, not even when Bobby leaned down and sniffed lightly at the fur on his big head.

"At least ya don't stink," he declared.

The junkman trudged to the fridge in his weathered kitchen, grabbed three bottles of cold beer and deftly twisted the caps off. He took a good swig off of each one, and then drew the ever-handy flask of holy water from his pocket and refilled the swigs he had taken. He left the bottles on the counter and gave his pantry a quick scan. Enough to feed an army, as always. Which was good because Dean Winchester was coming.

He checked the first aid kit under the sink, one of many he kept in the house. He was unsurprised but nevertheless happy that it was well-stocked, because every time John and his boys came along, someone always had a hole somewhere that needed fixing.

He hastily put his newest book acquisitions on easy view in the living room too - easier to keep the increasingly impatient and profoundly _teenage_ Sam Winchester occupied that way.

Bobby watched the Impala languidly stop to a park from his window. He wiped his greasy hands uselessly against equally-greasy pants, and then removed his cap and matted his hair down before smartly slipping it back on. Not that there was anyone to look good for, and most of the time the Winchesters came in looking much worse than he did. It was just that there were a very few people in the world who looked happy to see him, and he might as well look a little bit presentable.

He pulled open the door of his home just as John Winchester swung heavy legs off the driver's side of the car and rose to his feet. Bobby gave him a welcoming nod, before turning to the other doors of the car expectantly.

He waited for the latest incarnation of Sam to come bounding out the backseat. He looked different every time Bobby saw him, just getting bigger and bigger. The only thing that didn't change was that he was always stomping-angry or stomping-excited about something.

He waited for the theatric emergence of Dean from the passenger seat, indulgent and suave, dressing more and more in John's hand-me-downs and curiously enough looking more and more like that gorgeous mother of his instead. _Hell yeah_ Bobby knew how the aspirational Mary looked like; the Winchesters have spent enough time at the Yard for John to have drawn out and drunkenly rambled about her photograph from his wallet a few times. Bobby doubted that old man Winchester would even remember any of that, or want to.

Bobby frowned when none of the other car doors opened and John jogged over to the one on the passenger side, its immaculate glass windows shining and hiding what Bobby guessed would be Dean's hunched figure. He walked toward them apprehensively.

"John?"

"Kid got himself banged up some," replied the other hunter with a grunt. He opened the door and leaned in, reaching for Dean's legs and swinging them over to the ground. Bobby angled his body just-so, looking around John's considerable bulk to find the younger Winchester looking rail-thin and pale as a sheet, green eyes just hollowed out in painkillers even as his tightly-set jaws screamed that he probably wasn't having enough of them. The source of the aggravation was apparently a heavily-casted right leg, mid-thigh down to just below the knee. Stiff, shaky movements, the bruised and scarred left arm folded and wrapped around his chest and the gauzed-up right arm slung over John's shoulders only promised that Bobby could only see the worst of what was actually more hurts.

"_Jesus_, John," Bobby breathed, wanting to move forward to help, but not knowing quite where to grab or touch... the kid was a mess.

"He'll be all right," came the curt reply.

"Yeah, but--"

"I know, Bobby," John growled, "Can it."

"Where's Sam?" Bobby inquired warily, peering into the empty backseat, "He all right?"

"Packed up and went off on his own a couple months back," John said gruffly, "Doing better 'n all of us. Dean-o here," he readjusted his grip as the three men ambled toward the house, "He just has to get used to a bare right side now, huh? Gotta cover that better."

"Not," Dean gasped, surprising Bobby with some semblance of alertness, "Not Sam's fault."

"Never is," John mumbled, stopping by the porch steps of the house and sighing as if he was standing at the foot of a mountain, "Bobby, you wanna make this place handicap accessible?"

The junkman snorted at his guest, and moved over to Dean's other side. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just..." John said, eyes already calculating some form of plan, "Just grab the duffel in the back, would you?"

"You got him?"

"'Course I do."

Bobby shrugged and walked back to the car, tried not to turn around when he heard Dean's gasping whimper of "_Dad..._" and John's quick and panicky assurances of "_I got you, almost there, you're doing good..._"

Bobby shook his head and sighed, wondering how things would have been for him if his wife had lived, if... if they had a kid of their own. The thought caused a familiar twist in his gut, and he just leaned over the Impala's backseat, grabbed the duffel and slammed the door shut.

" " "

Bobby returned to his house to find Dean asleep on the couch in his living room, the old brown monstrosity folding around the young hunter in a familiar way, sinking beneath his weight lovingly. Dean's left arm was hanging off of the couch, and Bobby was going to put the limb to rest on Dean's chest until he found that Dean's left hand rested right smack on top of Rumsfeld's big head. The dog laid down on the floor by Dean and looked pleased with himself.

Bobby rolled back his eyes and put the duffel down on the floor quietly, before seeking out John and finding him in the kitchen, staring at the three beer bottles on the counter.

"You're gonna need to start putting out just two now that Sam's up and left," John said to him.

"That's all right," Bobby said carefully, "More for me."

John sat down on one of the battered seats around the dining table and ran his hands through his hair.

"You all right?" Bobby felt compelled to ask.

"Yeah," John winced.

"Kid got too close to the fire for your liking, huh?" Bobby guessed, pushing one of the beer bottles his way. "Go take your drink, Winchester. Dean obviously gets a free pass, this one time. And you look like you need it."

John shrugged and downed a third of the bottle in a gulp, "It's a dangerous gig."

"And he's still your son," Bobby pointed out, "You got rights to be shaky whenever he gets hurt. What the hell happened?"

"The usual shit," John said, looking at Bobby pointedly, "And the hunt ain't done yet."

Bobby frowned. "You want me to send someone up there?"

"I did when I was in the hospital with Dean," John replied, wincing again and drinking again, "But I lost a guy already. Davids, you know him. Good man, dirty fighter? Kids and a goddamn widow up in Stamford, now. Terrain's a tricky bitch too. I've called up some people; it ain't a one-man job. But more and more I know I gotta be there. Terrains a bitch, I said." He looked at Bobby meaningfully.

"You leavin' Dean here?" Bobby asked, though he already knew the answer.

"There's kids out there dying, Bobby. I gotta go back and take care of this."

"You don't need to sell it," Bobby said, "It's just..."

He stared at his old friend, who looked exhausted but as driven as always.

"I like having your runts around, you know that," Bobby said, scratching the back of his neck uneasily, not quite able to find the words to say that he wasn't really in a position to be caring for anyone at the moment, much less a belligerent Dean whom he knew from experience he sometimes had to _fight_ to help.

"Only a couple of days," John promised. He looked sincere and he probably thought he was telling the truth, but Bobby doubted it was how things would turn out because it almost never did, with John. One hunt stretched longer than expected, and one became two or three, the next state became two states over and so on, and with Dean laid up like he was, Bobby was almost sure the younger Winchester wasn't going anywhere with his father until he was much more mobile and functional.

Normally, Dean staying wouldn't be a problem. As a matter of fact, it was almost always a pleasure. But things were a bit different...

How could he tell an old friend that he was in no position to be caring for anyone else but himself right now?

How could he tell an old friend that he was sick? Or – _scratch that crap_ – dying?

But John had to do what he had to do, as always, in a hunt god knows where. And Dean... Dean would have suffered getting dragged to hell and back by his daddy, but tanked up on painkillers on one leg was a little too much to ask, wasn't it? He'd end up passed out alone in a motel or in pain for endless hours on the road, looking as sick and thin as Bobby had just seen him.

Bobby resolved that though he might be ill, these damn bones had some kick to them yet.

"Fine, I got him," Bobby said, "A coupla days, huh?"

"Yeah."

_Poor, clueless liar_.

"Does he know?" Bobby asked, "Your brat hates getting left behind and he turns into a bigger pain in the ass."

"I wanted to get you in first," John said, "I shoulda known you'd say yes."

"Damn straight."

John smiled a little then, looking as if he hasn't done it in a long time, like it was a crack on his face. "You're a good man, Singer."

" " "

"Hey," father called to son, the older man lightly tapping Dean's uninjured left leg, "Hey, Dean."

The sleep-even breathing hitched, and fever-bright green eyes fluttered open and immediately found his father's face.

"Know where you are?" John asked.

Irritation flashed across Dean's eyes, "Of course I kn--"

"Yeah, yeah," John cut him off, waving his hand around vaguely, "I'm headed out."

Dean took a deep breath and moved to sit up, but his father's hand was already pressed to his chest. He grit his teeth in determination and held his father's wrist in a death grip, trying to get it off of him.

"You listen to me," John said, voice turning unsubtly into the clipped Drill Sergeant version, "You stay here, you get better, all right? I'll be back in a couple of days, you hear? I gotta finish the hunt, but I'll check in, all right?"

"No," Dean said, voice hoarse, sounding and looking like a child for the first time in more than a decade, "Dad, please."

"Aw, come on, kid," Bobby piped in, appearing beside John, "I'm not that bad."

"Now you settle down," John said, "And not give your uncle Bobby any headaches."

"Uncle?" Bobby snorted, "Your boy hasn't shown me any respect in years."

"See?" Dean pointed out, gasping when he tried to shift away from his father and jostled his leg. He grit his teeth and hissed, "He doesn't want me here."

"Aw, hell, Dean," Bobby said, taking pity, "You know I do--"

Dean gave him a small grin, eyes weary but alight for the first time since he was brought in the house, and Bobby knew he'd just been had.

"Nervy bastard," Bobby grumbled, rising to his feet.

John chuckled, patting Dean lightly on the uninjured leg again, "No headaches, I said."

"He's laughing inside," Dean guaranteed as he shifted and winced again.

"You know what else is inside my head?" Bobby asked, "I'm thinking about my hands, wrapped tight around a punk's scrawny neck."

"You two are a riot," John sighed, "I'm heading out. Back in a couple of days, champ."

" " "

Something woke him, deep in the night.

Bobby's eyes snapped open and he stared up at the cracking ceiling of his room, wondering what it is that had woken him because it was so damn quiet. He looked at the time: 3am. He had put Dean to sleep just a few hours ago; the kid was pliant about taking some crackers and his pills, and then went straight to dreamland.

The night was quiet, still. He liked the solitude of his Yard at weird hours, the odd clinks of wind against battered metal, leaves brushing against the wood of his house, the off-key singing of the loose side of his business sign swinging with the breezes.

He sat up, wondered if he had dreamed about something and just forgot what it was. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly and decided that since he was up anyway, he might as well check on his guest.

Quietly, barefoot so as he would not wake the usually sharp-eared younger hunter, he walked to the slightly open door of Dean's room. He peered inside and jumped in spite of himself; Dean's emerald gaze met his squarely.

"Cripes, kid!" Bobby hissed, "Warn an old man, would you?"

Dean closed his eyes, and in the dull light of the moon seeping in the room, Bobby saw the streaks of tears that tracked from his eyes to his cheek and then down to the pillow. Dean's body was practically damn _folded _in on itself, and his pale face was glistening with a fine sheet of sweat. He was trembling, hands clawed around his casted limb, and his breath came in deep and measured, very carefully controlled. Bobby made to stepped forward in a panic, "Did I get the dosage wr--"

His voice fell flat when Dean's eyes snapped open and pinned him where he was.

They stared at each other for a long moment, Dean inhumanly making absolutely no sound whatsoever, except for his screaming, anguished green eyes. Bobby marveled at his resolve, and his heart felt cold at the idea that this probably wasn't the first time the young hunter laid in bed in a room somewhere, biting his lip against his pain, lying still and unmoving, fearing to bother his father or his brother. Painfully constrained, soundless crying.

"Sorry if I woke you," Dean rasped, breaking the spell.

"What can I do?" Bobby whispered, as if they were going to be waking up anyone else.

Dean took a deep, shaky breath. "No offense, man. But you gotta leave me the fuck alone right now."

"Dean--"

"It goes away in the morning," Dean whimpered, "I promise, it goes away. God, Bobby, just... I can't do this right now... Get the hell out..."

_Can't face you. Can't pretend. Can't hide. Can't, can't _bethis _in front of you..._

"You know where I'll be," Bobby said, his mouth dry, not knowing what else he could do for the younger man. Wanting to hold him or something and at the same time, wanting to respect him as a man, not understanding if there was some form of middle-ground.

He walked back to his own room, stared at the ceiling and and didn't fall asleep for _hours_.

" " "

Something woke him midmorning.

The sun was high up in the sky, and the suffering young hunter who looked like death the night before was leaning heavily against his doorframe, hair neatly combed and clothes fresh and changed. His eyes were bright, alert, fully in possession of himself again. He was holding out a steaming cup of coffee.

Appropriately overcompensating, Bobby concluded, which was oxy_moron-_ic, but also typically Dean. Again, Bobby had a feeling this was not the first time the younger man had dragged himself out of bed in a bid to look like he was fit for the rest of the day.

"You gonna sleep all day?" Dean grinned at him. His eyes were so damn clear that Bobby was tempted to believe he had just dreamed up last night's misery. But the smile shook at the corners as if the kid was losing his nerve, looking at Bobby expectantly, wanting him to join in on the charade. They weren't going to be talking about the night before, apparently.

_It goes away in the morning, I promise it goes away?_

_... he hadn't just been talking about the pain._

"How long you been up?" Bobby asked, scratching the back of his head.

"Not long," Dean said, hobbling over to Bobby's bed. He grabbed at walls and tables and cabinets; it was a long road and the coffee sloshed in the cup but somehow, Bobby's floors were safe from spillage. Rumsfeld was following Dean around attentively.

"Break anything?" Bobby asked, when Dean offered it to him.

"I know how to fricking operate your coffee machine."

"I meant you know," Bobby said as he took a sip; the kid had a good hand with the coffee, "Your neck, your other leg, an arm... anything you got left that isn't busted, going down my stairs?"

"I feel good today."

Bobby looked at him, sidelong, measuring.

"I do!" Dean insisted, "I get all stiff in the car and when I'm in bed, anytime I stay still too long. I took my morning pills, got a bit of exercise in... I'm good."

"No more stairs today," Bobby ordered.

Dean looked like he wanted to argue. He licked his lips and wrestled with himself. He finally just nodded.

"You sure you got your medicines this morning?" Bobby asked.

"Yes, yes," Dean rolled his eyes, "I took 'em. Otherwise I'd be dead from the coffee run. I took 'em."

"Good," Bobby said, approvingly, "Now the hard part."

"You're not thinking of helping _bathe_ me or something, are you?" Dean asked, wide-eyed, "'Cos--"

"I'm not fricking _suicidal_," Bobby said with a shrug, "I'm gonna have to look for something for you to do."

" " "

Bobby handed him a power tool, some screws, a metal handlebar from god knows where, some polish, and then deposited him on the cold tile of the upstairs bathroom.

"Make yourself a handlebar," the junkman ordered.

"You sure this is for me?" Dean smirked at him, grateful for the absorbing work, "Or for you in your old age?"

"Polish it good too," Bobby snapped, "And for god's sake, be careful with the power tool; tiles are a bitch to drill into."

"I think I can figure it out," Dean said with a sly grin.

"When that's sorted, then you can handle yourself taking a bath," Bobby said, triumphantly, "See? A reason for everything; it all works out."

"Maybe you could also ask the invalid to build you an elevator so you wouldn't need to haul me up the stairs," Dean said, sarcastically, "Build a ramp too, maybe a lift, an escalator, and other forms of inappropriate hard labor."

"What do you think of me, boy?" Bobby snapped, before giving him a wink, "That's for _tomorrow_."

" " "

Bobby did some repairs on an old Chevy at the yard, periodically checking on his patient/forced laborer every few hours. Dean whined about dying for a cool beer, and Bobby gave him water, crackers and his medicine instead. He pretended to mind, but did as he was told. Bobby cooked them a hearty lunch and fixed up a tray to bring up the stairs, humming absently to himself.

"You're awful quiet up there!" Bobby called out as he was going up the stairs, "I don't hear you working!"

He put the tray down on the floor just outside the bathroom and found Dean off the tiles and on his feet, already making good use of the newly-installed, shining metal handlebars. There was some blood on them; the kid must have nicked himself on something. He was standing by the sink, and the medicine cabinet was open in front of him.

"What the hell is all this?" Dean asked, his voice flat. The lightly-dripping, bloodied hand was forgotten as he stared at Bobby's little pharmacy. Rows and rows of orange prescription bottles stared back and mocked them both.

"They're yers," Bobby growled, shutting the mirrored cabinet, almost hitting the younger hunter's nose, "Got them from yer daddy's care package."

Dean turned to him, accusingly. "Yeah, and they're all probably Viagra, right? Jesus, Bobby. I saw your name on the damned things. Anything you wanna say? What is it, huh? And this shit-ass lying? You're scaring me here."

Bobby averted his eyes, "You know how old men are. There's a supplement for everything, and then there's a blood pressure thing, and one for the sugar and arthritis--"

"Bobby," Dean said, staring him down, "Look at me."

Dean could be so insistent, sometimes. His eyes burned through and through and through...

"What the hell is all this for?" Dean asked.

"You know how old men are," Bobby said, meeting his gaze, smiling sadly, "I'm dying, kid. When it's your time to go, it's just your time to go."

**To (maybe) be continued...**

Thanks for reading, C&C's as welcome as always, and 'til the next post!


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